


An All-Consuming Creature

by RebrandedBard



Series: An All-Consuming Creature [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abduction, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Deceit, Download Available, EDIT: now with full beta, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fairy Tale Logic, Fix-It, Geralt sings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, I'll probably include some art for this somewhere down the line, I've actually stopped writing in the middle of the first chapter to compose a song for it, Inspired by Eros and Psyche (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Jaskier | Dandelion Sings, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapping, M/M, Manhandling, Mutual Pining, No Beta, Non-Consensual Touching, Orgy, Original Music, PDF available, Rescue, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Songfic, alternating british and american spelling because my education is fucked up, and a reference to canon material, as in end the entire world big time, but it's an illusion, but what else is new, i guess?, it's the result of an accidental contract, later chapters contain:, like trying to light a fire with damp wood kind of slow burn, so Geralt kinda fucked up big time, the personification of love, there's a forced kiss but that's it, we die like men and get our shit wrecked in the comments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 164,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23408935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebrandedBard/pseuds/RebrandedBard
Summary: Following the events on the mountain top, Jaskier and Geralt have parted ways. Months pass and winter comes, brining with it stillness and the ever-pressing silence to remind Geralt that someone is missing. But spring is late in coming. Worry and work pours in through every part of the Continent as the people consult every power available: witchers, sorceresses, kings, and countrymen, for nothing is growing in the fields. Nothing flowers. What can be the cause? And why in all this time has he heard not a single note from that familiar lute, whatever tavern or pub he's come upon? Rumors abound of the terrifying prospect that spring may not return and the bard's disappearance is lost in the shuffle. When the witcher lost his dandelion, had the world lost so much more?alt — Jaskier gets kidnapped by a strange entity that calls itself Love who attempts to woo him. Meanwhile, the world is dying and no one has answers. Therein lies a mystery and a connection.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: An All-Consuming Creature [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962019
Comments: 984
Kudos: 1176
Collections: Identity Crisis





	1. The Withered World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to go back and put word counts at the beginning of each chapter so you guys can better gauge your reading time and know what you're getting into. Too many of y'all start reading at 3am. Your hubris shadows my own and I love you for it.
> 
> 3047

"Yellow is the happiest color of all, don’t you think?”

Geralt remembered the way he’d waxed poetic about it for nigh an hour during their last amicable trip together, only days before they’d gone up the mountain. Jaskier had gone on and on, describing everything in sight. The sun, little rays of light filtering from the foliage above, sunbursts in the grass, the dandelions by the side of the road, even the yellowish dirt kicking up dust as they walked. Not that he’d ever wear the color, of course, for fear of looking too washed-out. Blue was the next-happiest, being clear as the sky, and didn’t it just make his merry eyes sparkle _just_ so when he wore a blue doublet and smiled? Yellow might be a much happier color, were it not for Geralt’s constant need to sulk and narrow those golden eyes of his. If there were a smile in those eyes, yellow might be all the merrier.

“But I know you so well, Geralt. I know those eyes like no other, and I know I’ve spotted the odd smile hiding in them now and again, so I suppose I can live with yellow being a little gloomy around you. As long as I have the privilege of seeing those rare smiles, I can rejoice, for yellow shall be joyful then beyond compare!”

“Piss is yellow too,” Geralt had replied, emerging from behind a bush. It was just like Jaskier to prattle on even when Geralt relieved himself. Unfortunately, there was no relief from his incessant chatter. He finished lacing the ties on his trousers.

Jaskier wagged a finger at him. “Don’t be vulgar; you’ll spoil my speech.”

“Whatever it takes to end it.”

He may have had the slightest lift to the corner of his mouth as he’d turned away to fetch Roach’s reins. He’d certainly delighted in the indignant huff behind him.

“I swear, every new beast we come upon is a test to my patience. One day I’ll end up being chased away by some monster so terrifying that I’ll snap, pack up, and take my leave all the way back to Oxenfurt, and you’ll miss my songs—and _then_ you’ll be sorry,” Jaskier threatened. “But as of yet, there’s no beast more offending than your sarcasm.”

But it was not sarcasm that had driven Jaskier away from the mountain’s peak. That had been a more terrible beast. It was the one that Geralt neglected to protect him from.

* * *

Geralt was not to blame for his failure to notice the first sign of trouble. It was winter: a time when flowers were few and far between. Everything was a dead, brown, or buried under a thick blanket of snow, save for the evergreens, though even their color was dulled with the general grey of the world around them. If the snowdrops were a little late in blooming, it was only because spring was later than usual. But they were not late, and nor was spring. Neither were coming at all.

Perhaps it was only the part of the country he was in. Surely in time things would come to bloom. But as the air turned warm it became terrifyingly clear that something had changed all across the land, as far as men could travel. Nothing flowered. April came and so did panic, stepping on its heels. There was not a petal to be found in any garden or field.

Pleas of desperation crowded the notice boards in every town with work for witchers and sorcerers alike—for anyone who could make the crops grow. The branch of every tree in every orchard was barren of buds. Anything that flowered appeared stopped in time. The plants remained but nothing would grow from them. The people feared a curse or blight had poisoned the land.

It was like nothing Geralt had ever seen.

“This world will starve if we cannot find a solution quickly.” The farmer twisted his hands round the handle of his shovel, his stare hollow with fear as he raked eyes across the barren soil. “Our winter supplies are at their ends. Everyday there’s less game to hunt in the woods, for all the deer and rabbits and the rest have run off somewhere in search of food. Please, tell me there’s some clue, witcher. Tell me something can be done.”

Geralt prodded the dirt, uncovering the root of a cabbage. He pulled it from the earth, brushed it and turned it over in his hands. There was nothing amiss. The same with the onions and the rosemary patch. Everything looked perfectly healthy, there was no wilting of the root, no yellowing leaves, no mold or rot, but everything refused to grow. Yet, at the same time, nothing was dying. Everything was simply … stopped.

His medallion hummed faintly on his chest while he held the cabbage. There was magic at work here, but of a sort he could not identify. For weeks now, it seemed to vibrate at will, for reasons Geralt could not understand. There had been no monsters around much of the time, and nothing magical that he could detect. He had briefly debated returning to Kaer Morhen to have it examined. He’d never heard of a medallion giving a false positive. Until recently, he thought he’d been cursed.

“Is it Griggs’ mischief?” the farmer asked, standing as close to the witcher as he dared to see what he was looking at.

“Hardly. They aren’t a vicious sort, even the worst of them.”

“I heard a story once when I was a boy about an Archespore that made an entire field wither up and die in an afternoon.”

“Your story’s horseshit,” Geralt grunted. He dropped the cabbage on the ground and kicked it aside dismissively. “Archespores don’t kill crops. And nothing here is dying.”

“What do you mean? Look around! Nothing has grown!”

Geralt rounded on him, squinting. “Nothing is _growing,”_ he said. “Lack of growth is not death.”

“It is for the people of our village. If nothing grows, we’ll have nothing to eat.”

Geralt stepped over the row of cabbages and started walking out of the field.

The farmer startled, then chased after him. “Wait! Witcher! Tell me what’s wrong!” he pleaded. “We’ve promised good pay, if you can only identify the problem.”

“Keep your coin,” Geralt replied. “I can’t help you.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?”

Geralt turned to him as he mounted Roach’s saddle. “Find a mage,” he said. He intended to find one himself. This was the seventh field he’d inspected in as many towns, and the problem was not isolated. He could not leave it alone. If the smallest village could not grow a single turnip, and the largest cities could not grow an apple, then he would starve with the rest of men, for when the shortages came, no one would sell him a walnut for a bag of gold if he were an emperor. And he was a witcher. Even in good times, there were people who were hard-pressed to take his custom.

 _Now_ , he thought _, would be a good time for that djinn to make good on his wish_. If magical bonds and destiny had any merciful sway in this world, it would bring Yennefer to him within the next three towns. He needed help from someone who knew sorcery better than himself. And three towns away, waiting, was Aretuza.

* * *

“For the last time, we’ve checked with every sense and spell there is, and this is not the work of a curse!”

An angry uproar echoed throughout the chamber, voices screeching with indignation and ringing off the walls of the sorcerers’ council chamber. The Brotherhood had come together from all parts of the Northern Kingdoms to hold a hearing in Aretuza to pool information on the situation at hand. It was true of every place: everything had stopped growing that could be found, stuck as if untouched by time.

A sorceress stood with her palms firmly on the council table, her shoulders hunched forward. “How would you explain it, then? This is not some benign spell. Nothing about this is at all natural. This was a deliberate endeavor, no matter how you look at it!”

“But how _can_ we look at it?” another sorceress protested. “No elf, imp, witch, or wizard is responsible for this plague, and there’s nothing left we haven’t tried using to distinguish a cause! We stand in this room with representatives from every kingdom—from kingdoms at _war_ —all at a loss for answers. This is magic is unlike anything we’ve ever witnessed. It’s a Chaos beyond our understanding.”

This brought another round of provoked shouting as grudging sorcerers and sorceresses alike began tossing blame like a ball between them heedlessly.

The first sorcerer spoke again, doing his best to raise his voice above the cacophony. “Just because it is beyond our understanding does not make it a natural disruption!” he cried, but he was lost in the noise. Theirs was proud company, and each of them liked to think they knew best, or else they were afraid to admit that they had no answers. There was fear guiding them. Panic. Perhaps it was the stress of the fighting that led Yennefer quietly through the council doors and down to the lower chamber, or perhaps it was an unconscious tether, pulling her as ever toward her witcher.

“You _would_ be here now,” she said, seeing Geralt’s face emerge from the stable.

Geralt halted, staring. “Yennefer.”

Jaskier was not the only one who’d been left behind on the mountain. Seeing her again brought back that pain in an instant. Now that he was here, he was afraid to confront her again—to lose her again. But even now, he wondered if she’d turn away in the midst of everything around them. Could they not come together at least in indifference for a moment? There were bigger problems at large. He was fully prepared to tell her so before she cut him off with a hand between them.

“Leave it, Geralt. I’ll have no talk of what happened before. If you’re here for me, you can leave now or wait for _me_ to go; I won’t be staying long. Though we’re bound to be thrown together as often as we are, I don’t expect you to linger.”

“It’s about the crops,” he grumbled. Though he hoped a talk would be in order in the future, if there was a future to hope for.

“I know what you’re going to ask and it’s the only thing anyone’s been able to think about for weeks. I’m tired and my head hurts from listening to them all talk in circles.”

Geralt looked up the side of the building. “So they’ve all gathered here?” He could swear he heard the faintest thrum of conversation, even so far down below. They must be raising hell.

“Yes, all. And not one of them has any answers,” she grumbled back.

“Who’s come from Nilfgaard?” Geralt asked. “Or are we still warring?”

“We might be warring worse soon enough. One of our own was following the blight from the beginning. Said it started in Caingorn, heading east.”

Geralt’s thoughts halted.

“It wasn’t me, before you go getting any ideas. You couldn’t fuck me up bad enough to doom the world, so don’t go taking credit. Besides, none of us has that kind of power.”

“Then Borch?”

She shook her head. “We may not know much about dragons, but I’d like to think I’m not such a poor judge of character.” Yennefer began to walk away from him, pacing as she spoke. “None of us has any idea what this thing is or what’s caused it, but we know when it started and where it came from. _We_ were in Caingorn. And you and I know who was on that mountain before it happened.”

“Dwarves,” Geralt recalled. “Reavers, the Zerrikanian warriors, a dragon. And your knight, but I doubt he’s a threat to anyone now. I don’t see him coming back as anything else.”

“And what about your bard?”

Geralt felt something pull in his chest. “What about him?”

“Anything special about him? Anything that might need worrying about?”

“Nothing,” he replied.

Then, she looked at him with an odd glimmer in her eye. “Shame. I was hoping he might make for a decent distraction at the very least—get you off my skirt. You never did answer my question before. In a different context: what is he?”

“Human.” He ignored the rest of her egging.

She scoffed. “No skin-care routine can keep a face that smooth, no matter how diligent.” It was very nearly a compliment.

“His only power is to make a man drive a blade through his own ear from prolonged exposure to his ranting.”

“Speaking of,” Yennefer peeked over his shoulder, eying the stables and the accompanying grounds. “Where is your pet songbird? It’s awful quiet. I haven’t been insulted or jeered at yet, and I’m suddenly finding myself very lonely in competing for your attention. Bring him out and I’ll gladly let him win awhile, though I might like to make him squirm first; it’s ever- so entertaining and I’m in desperate need of something fun. And in case you try to be funny, let me be clear that that is not an invitation. Besides, fuck a witcher once and you’ve learned all his tricks. You know what they say about old dogs. A white wolf is just another dog with grey hair. Look at me being clever without him—he’s missing all the fun.”

Geralt kept his composure, though the leather of his gloves squeaked quietly as he clenched his fists. All this talk of the bard was putting him on edge. He’d thought of him enough on the ride down the mountain. On the road. In the town. And every damn time he saw his yellow eyes reflected in a bit of water. He’d rather she continued to argue at him than say another word about the bard.

“He’s gone,” Geralt said. The answer came too slowly for Yennefer, and he felt her eyes boring holes in the side of his head, searching. “I left him after the hunt.”

“Strange. I thought if he was ever going to leave, it’d be the other way around. Trying to save face, Geralt?”

“I said some things …” he trailed.

Yennefer observed him awhile in silence.

“Knowing you, are they things you’d rather not let be the last he remembers?” she asked, echoing a discussion from long ago.

Geralt did not reply.

“Oh Geralt, you are trouble.” She sighed. “With everyone, it seems.”

Geralt doubled back and made for the stable door as if it were an exit from the conversation. “Borch is the most likely in all this. I’ll confront him next.”

Yennefer dogged his steps. “Geralt, what did you say to him?” she pressed.

“He might be able to answer a few questions at least.”

Yennefer stood between him and the stables, trying to corner him. “Actions have extreme consequences in this world; there are forces always listening for an opportunity, and destiny seems to like you or hate you a lot. Either way, it watches you with great interest.”

“Leave off.”

“Every time you’re involved in some conflict, something comes of it. Now there was something I wasn’t there to see, and your friend is gone. Explain that, Geralt.”

“That’s a crock of _shit,_ ” he hissed.

“The Law of Surprise ring a bell? Tell me what you did!”

Geralt turned and swiped at the air. “I told him off!” he thundered. “He kept talking and getting in the middle of things and I was sick of it, and I told him off! I told him if life could give me one blessing, it would be to take him off my hands!” He remembered. Those words had resonated in his head since Jaskier’s absence filled anew with empty quiet. And then it had been winter, and the world was full of silence. Those words had been his constant companion. His tormentor.

A minute passed between them as Geralt calmed his breathing. His hands slowly unclenched, then hung limply at his sides.

“Just … let me help,” he whispered. “This plague. Give me a task. Give me something to hunt, something to find. If your destiny wants me to meet him again, it’ll see to it.”

“I think that’s why it brought you to me. Nobody else would ever talk any sense into you. Very well. I’ll send you to find something,” she said. “ _Him_.”

She stood to the side, pointing toward the stable. “There’s no work for you here, witcher. Let us alone to solve the problem. I will seek out Borch and you will ask your bard what he has seen. He gets all the details, after all.” She let a comforting hand linger on his shoulder as she passed him. The council was waiting upstairs, and she had a duty to them and the world that she’d be a hypocrite to ignore. “Now’s the time to go out, visit those you care for, and mend mistakes. You might not have much of it soon.”

Geralt had not known helplessness in many years. There had been a time of great helplessness when he was very young, and he’d not learned how to cope with it since. He’d felt helpless watching Yennefer leave. He’d felt it when he could not find Ciri in the woods. He’d felt it as he watched Jaskier’s face crumble at his own words. And now the world was dying and there was nothing for him to do. And Yennefer was not to be denied.

Inside the stable, he petted Roach gently, resting his head on her broad neck. He hid there a moment in the shadows, in her side. There was no shame here, no obligation in this fragment of time. He was frozen in it, like the cabbage crop, unmoving, unaging, unburdened. Then, he asked Roach’s pardon, for there was a long road ahead of them, and he slipped over the saddle without another word.

He set out on the northern road, headed to Redania. The time had come to seek out Oxenfurt.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So deadass I wrote this because I wrote ONE poem where Geralt pines for Jaskier and I thought about him singing it, and then an entire fucking story came about from that so now God is punishing me for my hubris and forcing me to write this.


	2. Invocation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3822

The call rang from room to room from the throats of young students as they fetched one another to witness the strange appearance of a witcher in their hallowed halls. “The White Wolf is in Oxenfurt!”

They crept in small groups silently, gathering to linger outside the headmaster’s office. Lessons were abandoned by the braver students, who ducked from their lecture halls in plain sight of stammering professors. Those not attending classes passed in the halls from point A to B, and if, perhaps, they took the long way round to their destination and happened by the office, no one should notice or make a fuss.

“What’s he doing here?” a student whispered, hiding around the corner.

“Probably getting scolded by the Headmaster is what. Witchers have no business here. There are no monsters for them to hunt on our grounds.”

“If anyone’s getting scolded,” another replied, “it’s the Headmaster. I wouldn’t mouth off to a witcher. Look at the size of his swords!”

Geralt glanced at them from the corner of his eye. Those peeking through the little window in the office door ducked down and made a mad scramble for the nearest class or closet. His focus returned to the Headmaster, currently wrapping up his extensive, if somewhat unenthusiastic introduction to the school and its history. A scripted politeness.

“I don’t wish to take up your time,” Geralt said, finding a brief pause for breath in the conversation. “I’m looking for the bard Jaskier.”

“Jaskier …” the man twisted absently at his whiskers. He had a very showy mustache sprouting from his upper lip: doubtlessly an effort to appear older and more respectable among the tenured professors. Then, his eyes lit up in recognition. “Ah, Professor Pankratz. Slipped my mind. He only taught for a year at our establishment, so I’d quite forgotten, but I believe he fashioned that name just before leaving for his more musical endeavors. I recognize him as the bard, of course, but he feels so foreign to this place now.”

“Is he teaching?” Geralt asked. He didn’t tolerate this kind of chatter from many people, and the Headmaster struck him as a particularly idle person with a lot of nothing to talk about. And he certainly was talking nonsense. Pankratz? It had not occurred to him that Jaskier might have a surname at all. Or a past beyond singing for that matter.

“Teaching? No, no, not for many years. In fact, he hasn’t been back for so much as a visit or guest lecture in my memory. Though I may have been out.”

Geralt strode to the door.

“Leaving us so soon, witcher?” the Headmaster asked. He was friendlier now that he was sure he was not the object of the witcher’s gruff inquiries. People were generally friendlier when Geralt’s back faced them through a doorframe. It was in that way people could pretend they’d behaved kinder throughout.

“I’ll find better information from a pub,” he said. They were reliable for that sort of thing. At least there he’d be able to find out when Jaskier’s last performance had been. That would offer him some estimate of when he’d last been in town. He doubted he could have overtaken Jaskier on the road without a word. The last clue he had was Oxenfurt. That was where Jaskier said he’d go if he ever left. But he was not here. Where else would he go?

“Have you been to his estate in Lettenhove? He might be at home.”

Geralt paused in the doorway. He turned, forehead creased, and looked at the Headmaster as if he’d grown a second head—one that spouted even more ridiculous things.

“His _what?”_

* * *

Jaskier smacked a branch furiously out of his way as he descended the mountainside. It bounced back and cuffed him on the ear like an indignant schoolteacher reprimanding a disobedient student—and he’d had his fair share of _those_ sorts of teachers in his youth to know it.

He rounded on the branch equally as indignant. He smacked it again, now out of harm’s way. “Don’t _you_ start on me now. I’ve had more than enough misery for one day. For several. I will _not_ let the straw that breaks this camel’s back be self-inflicted!”

He addressed the rest of the woods, his arms flung outward. “That goes for the rest of you! The next branch or root that gets me is getting cut off and thrown over the side of the nearest cliff!” He pointed at a pine tree heavy with several large cones. “Let that branch be an example. That lone branch holds the potential for—(let me see now, _one-two-three-four)_ —seven new generations! And they’ll all be ripped down and tossed to the rocks, never to sprout. The same goes for anything else out there: dwarves, fae, and squirrels alike. All of you better clear out now while you can. I’ll dismantle the next thing that gets in my way!”

And it was that moment, after so many years of travel, that the frayed strap of his lute case decided to give out. The case fell in front of his forward foot and he stumbled over it, sliding several feet down the steep path before he came to a stop at the bottom, his legs all a-tangle on top of the case, and with one or two twigs down the back of his doublet.

Jaskier took a deep, broken breath, and let himself lay in the dirt among the pebbles before bothering to collect himself.

“The … the _next_ next thing that gets in my way,” he amended.

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the ground. It was evening now. He’d spent the last few hours trudging down the path in silence. He’d gone from mute misery to internal bargaining, to outright rage. Now he felt he was due for another bout of quiet brooding.

He sighed. His nose was full of dust but he had nothing to blow it with. He’d used his handkerchief to bundle up a few treats for Roach, which now lay buried secretly in Geralt’s saddlebags. He’d only snuck her one mint since buying a handful in the city. If Geralt found them, he wondered whether he’d throw them out.

“Probably toss them, handkin and all,” he mumbled. There was another thing he’d never see again, right alongside dear Roach, Geralt, and a good night’s sleep.

“Perhaps I’ll find comfort in the arms of my precious Countess de Stael.”

Even if he meant it, he doubted he’d ever bother.

He stared up at the bit of yellow sky he caught between the branches above. It was turning gold now. It made his stomach clench.

He’d not been walking particularly fast, even when he grew angry and wished to put the peak behind him. Geralt could have overtaken him with a half hour’s stride. He was probably chasing Yennefer down the other side of the mountain.

The sky was the only gold he’d see that evening, and he doubted it had any apologies to make.

Jaskier sighed again and settled his hands on his middle, perfectly comfortable with the twigs poking his shoulder blades and the rocks in his boots. He was not at home in his body at the moment. He was elsewhere, preoccupied with the light shining around the edge of a passing cloud, escaping in idle poetry. The cloud looked soft—warm, even. Compared to the boulder at his elbow, it was positively delicate.

He sat upright and opened his lute case. It felt familiar, comfortable like a baby’s blanket. It calmed him to hold the lute in his arms and strum any number of mindless melodies. Or perhaps not so mindless as he glared at the boulder, the beginnings of a song stirring in his mind. He sang very pointedly, experimenting:

_My heart is not carved out of ice—_

_It isn’t made of stone—_

_It’s soft and warm and tender-touch_

_…_

He paused, looking up the empty path. All that moved behind him was a cloud of dust, kicked up by some wandering wind. There was nothing familiar looking for him.

“ _From wandering … alone_ ,” he concluded.

He let the lute dangle in his fret hand, his arms balanced on his knees. This was not helping. He flopped back again a moment later, clutching the lute to his chest.

“So what now?”

There was no one to answer.

“One thing’s for sure: I’m not going back up there.” He plucked a string as if to emphasize his point. “I could go to Oxenfurt. Settle down, wear clean, starched shirts every day, and piss in a pot like civilized people.”

His lute let loose a twang beneath his thumb, arguing the point.

“I could return to Lettenhove,” he mused, but the very idea made him snort painfully.

“No. I think not.”

There was always the coast. He’d wanted to go for a long time now, never knew how to broach the subject. He’d contemplated appealing to Geralt with promises of drowners and nereids and all manner of mythical beasts a coastal town was sure to have trouble with. Sirens might pose an intriguing challenge. He’d felt sure he could entice Geralt with _them_. But those had been excuses and pie-flake ruses: easily broken.

And Geralt was not coming to the coast.

 _Why not go alone?_ a little voice whispered from within. He had a pocketful of arguments at the ready, but he was tired. The little voice came from the part of him that, as a boy, wanted to go splashing about in the ocean, collecting seashells and living carefree and clear as the sea breeze. He didn’t need Geralt for that.

But it was something he wanted to share. He doubted Geralt had ever played in the ocean—doubted if he ever _played_. What fun it would have been to catch him by surprise and splash his face with the cold, salty water. What a delight, sitting on the warm beach, his feet buried under a thick pile of sand. They’d hunt for hermit crabs and snapper biscuits. They might even find a starfish washed up in some tide pool. He’d heard about a creature called the anemone which curled up around one’s finger when poked. He’d heard it felt squishy and absolutely, delightfully weird. He wondered what face Geralt would make if he tried.

“I’d wear a new green doublet, embellished with the most iridescent mermaid scales,” he began, letting his heart drift towards the coast. “A ruffled shirt, simple embroidery. I’d have left my shoes up on the shore, away from the tide. The sun would be setting, light dancing over the waves, and my eyes would look beautiful surrounded by so much green and blue. I’d be laugh—no, _singing_ —singing the most lilting songs ever heard, my voice echoing over the cove, and it’d all be so lovely no one would ever dare to taint the scene with ugly words or actions. And I’d be so happy and carefree and in love with the world, that it’d make him miserable to see when he finally found me.”

Oh. Geralt had wandered in again. It wasn’t meant to be a revenge fantasy.

“Well, I’d be perfect and that’s that,” he huffed, now aware once more of the scent of pine and the roughness of the wilderness beneath him, thoughts of warm, soft sand gone. He tried to hold onto it just a little longer. “I’d bury myself in the arms of a gentle woman with wavy butter-yellow hair, and such delicate features. Or maybe a sailor. A great bulking sailor, towering six and a half feet tall, arms like masts. Or both. Both with square shoulders and strong arms. Yes, I think I’d like to be held awhile, and to really feel it. With golden, honey-brown eyes. Eyes you could sweeten tea with. Such eyes … such eyes not to be found elsewhere in all the world.”

He groaned.

The wind stirred around him as he shuffled to his feet again. A strong breeze shook the dust from his shoulders and he made short work of the twigs and rocks himself. He tossed his hair in place, straightened his doublet, and finished off by tying the strap back together. He slung it over his shoulder and started walking again.

For company, he kept his lute engaged. The path was even now: no fear of another misstep. He hummed and strummed his not-quite-merry way along, letting the song write itself as he went.

“I haven’t invoked a concept in a long time,” he thought aloud. “I feel this song requires it. Perhaps Time will do, or Winter, since it’s so dreary. Then again, Spring would be a wonderful contrast. I might make myself Spring, make that bastard Winter, since he’s decided to become icy and cold-hearted.” He sniffed defiantly. “Yes, that suits him.”

He felt a shiver of cold as the wind whipped once more. Oh, he hated the winds that lived on the mountain. For some reason, whether it was summer or winter, the breeze was always frigid on mountains. It was the end of summer now and breezes should be pleasantly cool during the day, and warm, honeysuckle-scented at night.

“Perhaps I’ll invoke the Wind and tell it to fuck off to the coast in my stead. At least there it’d be useful, blowing in ship’s sails or turning mills.”

But he’d begun by singing of the heart, and so sing of the heart he must. Though he thought it best to leave the rest of the song for the moment. The whistle of the wind in his ear, devoid of horse’s hooves that clomp and witchers’ heavy footsteps, reminded him that he was alone on this path, and no song could overpower that silence however loud or long he might play.

* * *

Geralt felt out of place staring up at the great stone house before him. Residence of Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. It was, to say the least, an imposing estate. He’d not spent much time wondering about Jaskier. Certainly he’d on occasion thought, “My gods, who raised you?” or even, “Were you born in a barn?” ironically on the rare occasion when Jaskier spoke out of turn at some grand event where he’d been invited to perform. Those little jokes were the most thought he’d put into it. Jaskier was always in the present for him. He existed nowhere else.

“Not a barn,” he remarked, staring at the extensive grounds. He hadn’t made it through the stone gate. Roach stood beneath him, shifting uncomfortably as she waited. But Geralt did not nudge her onward.

It made sense. Jaskier was mannerly. He was used to getting his way, used to dressing up fine and flirting with courtly people. He was Oxenfurt trained, and that alone should tell him a little about the bard’s background. But Jaskier had always been Jaskier: foolish, fumbling, gentle Jaskier. Someone who complained about Kikimore guts but would let his fingernails soak in black ichor to scrub it from his hair. He was indulgent, but seldom extravagant, and never dainty. He could imagine Jaskier sitting naturally at a table giving orders and being waited on for an evening of pampering, but try as he might, he couldn’t picture Jaskier _living_ it. It was so much easier to think of Jaskier growing tired of waiting and commanding, only to get up and fetch himself his own damn wine, or to slap together a quick meal and skip out the door. Jaskier was leisurely on lazy afternoons, but he was not idle. In fact, he grew bored very quickly on the road. That was when he was most insufferable, even going so far as to drape himself over the shoulder of a witcher, or poke about in his bags and another hundred things for entertainment or attention, even conflict—anything in order to relieve his boredom, with no regard for his safety. And Geralt would let him. Truth be told, he found it entertaining to a degree. Not that he’d ever let on.

Stood there on the paved path, he gazed up at the main door. He was not waiting for Jaskier to see him and come out. He was not waiting to catch sight of him. He was not even waiting for some page to come shoo him away. But he could not move, even as his recollection faded away and left the cold, severe landscape before him.

Yes, it was severe. It was stiff and serious, and he was certain that inside it’d be as frigid and pompous as he liked to imagine when he thought of more noble houses with distaste.

So he nudged Roach back on the road, headed toward the nearest pub. He left the house behind him. There was nothing there for him. Let the Headmaster think what he may; that was not the place he would find his bard. Just looking from the gate was enough to tell him that. And that sight was enough to make him think he understood Jaskier just a little more.

* * *

The pubs still cheered for his songs but Jaskier did not take requests, despite how many he received for the ballad of the Lion Cub of Cintra or the ever popular ‘Toss a Coin,’ sans a witcher to toss it to. He kept his songs free of all mention of Geralt and his exploits as he travelled. Instead, the songs he played were light-hearted, fluffy tunes or comical tales of raunchy encounters. On some days, however, overcome with some lingering resentment, he’d belt out some bitter verses with rhyming curses and insults meant for a thinly veiled subject. But more often than not, what overcame him was not anger, but something that cut deeper. Something that cut him like the scent of lilac and gooseberries cut through the air. And he’d written a song just for those moments of weakness.

The amount of coin the song brought him did not lift his spirits any after he finished his set. In fact, whatever songs he had in mind were forgotten by the time it was over, and he slunk quietly away to some dark corner to sit alone and drink. It was a borrowed habit.

It hurt all the more when there was no crowd to cheer him on. He’d become accustomed to camping, but he found that it left him with his thoughts more than he liked. His thoughts had a way of running away from him, and always back to the same scenes.

“What rhymes with _‘take you off my hands’_? Maybe _‘lonely by the coastal sands’_ or _‘leave me out of all your plans.’_ Lands, stands, _‘swollen glands’_ —but let’s not venture down that rabbit hole. _‘Wedding bands’_ and look, it gets worse as it goes. Terrible rhyme. New subject.”

He scrubbed his eyes with his palms. He wanted to shout into the empty woods. Maybe something would pop out and kill him. A Kikimore or Wraith would be most welcome now. Anything that would give him a decent excuse to scream without being honest.

He tore at the grass, fisting his hands in the wet earth. His eyes were hot and he wiped them against his shoulders. It wasn’t crying. Not yet.

Jaskier wiped his hands in his shirt. There was a bit of clay in the mix and it might stain. He didn’t care. He fell to playing his lute again. The lute itself was a cruel reminder when he remembered how he got it. But it wasn’t something he could simply sell or trade away. _“From wandering alone,”_ he murmured, picking up where he’d left off. An invocation. He’d already decided on it after the first week of travelling. There was only one thing he wished to invoke, if only to spit in its face and demand answers, for it seemed it only wanted to pain him.

_Has_ Love _, dear_ Love _, forsaken me?_

_Or have I missed my chance?_

_Was I too bus’ly occupied_

_To find a true romance?_

The wind was softer down in the regular woods on solid, level ground. It did not intrude upon his singing. It let him say what he liked and it listened politely. And currently what he wanted to sing was about how much of a bastard Love had been to him. It played games and taunted him, dangling something right before him, and not simply pulling it away, but ripping it out of his hands just when it had become second nature to hold it. He felt as though he’d wasted his time. Perhaps there wasn’t one true love in any life, but how close he’d let himself believe he’d come to something like it. And how quickly he’d rush to reach for it again if Love dangled it before him once more, however false a promise it might be.

The rest of the song came easy. He did not exaggerate any flattery of himself when he proclaimed his own lyrical genius to Geralt. He could rhyme on a whim, and there was a natural rhythm beating in his very soul. His heart beat in three-quarter time, he’d once claimed. One could waltz to it. And he had, just to prove it. He remembered the affectionate shake of the head Geralt had given him. Or maybe the affection had been his own imagining.

_I had a love—a love I’ve lost_

_One nevermore to see._

_I think that_ Love _has run away_

_And so abandoned me._

The wind was whipping harder now, not unlike the winds that blew that morning in Caingorn. It picked embers out of his campfire and carried them up towards the empty sky. Even the stars had left him tonight and he felt their absence with a terrible ache. His eyes stung. He told himself it was only dust. It was only an ember from the fires burning in his tear ducts. It was a trail of fire that rolled down his dusty cheek and dropped to the forest floor.

_Return my vow and take me, love;_

_Come take away my pain._

_Come wrap me in your arms, my love,_

_That I mayn’t leave again._

The wind was a violent roar in his ears and he cried out as something stroked his cheek. He dropped his lute and the fire blew out in an instant. Just as suddenly as it had come, the wind was gone again. The woods were silent. There was not a trace of life to be found; no cricket choirs or bullfrog’s chirping. The only sign that anyone had been there at all was the upset lute laying face-down on the rugged grass, a dusty blue travel bag, the smoldering ashes of a strangled fire, and a red doublet sinking to the ground on the last whispers of the departed gale.

[The Invocation](https://vimeo.com/424948601) from [Rebranded Bard](https://vimeo.com/user114098720) on [Vimeo](https://vimeo.com).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 👀  
> Better watch what you sing, Jaskier. And where you sing it.
> 
> For the record, this is not the poem I meant in my last note. That will be sung by Geralt.  
> I'll update a link to this song once I've made a video for it. I'm dying to post the other one, but I've got to wait until Geralt sings it, otherwise major spoilers. But believe me, I'm DYING. Gotta write FAST.
> 
> Edit: 06/01/2020  
> Now with Jaskier's song.


	3. The Runaway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4263

The pub Geralt entered was fairly small, all things considered. By the size of the Pankratz estate, he’d thought the nearest town would be larger, richer, but it seemed they chose to live privately away from all the bustle and noise of cities.

As he walked Roach to the post, a sound from within caught his attention. It was the familiar opening to that gods-forsaken song about the fishmonger’s whore of a daughter playing on the well-tuned strings of a lute. But his heart leapt, beating nearly a human pace. He jogged the last step toward the window and peered inside. He looked for the flash of a loud doublet in the lantern light and the turn of a light-hearted fool dancing between the tables to drum up applause. But he saw another fool where he expected to find one more familiar. He was too young, too blonde, and lacking in showmanship. He stepped back from the window and his heart slowed to its usual pace.

He tied Roach’s reins to the post with a knot made a little more forcefully than necessary.

Inside, he slipped onto a seat by the counter and ordered himself a pint of the house brew and their chattiest barmaid for information. That barmaid, as it turned out, was the pub’s proprietor. He poured Geralt his drink and asked from and whither.

“From the Pankratz estate,” he replied. “To wherever you tell me I can find the viscount.” He grimaced and took a long drink from his mug. The words left a strange taste on his tongue. He’d never get used to calling him that.

“Ah, the young runaway.” The man looked somewhere beyond Geralt’s shoulder, far out the window. There was a hint of nostalgia in his smile. “He hasn’t been back in this town for years. A shame. I heard him play once about ten years ago when I went to help my brother open his own establishment in Cintra. He played at the opening for us. I’d like to hear him play his songs again, but I’m not suited to travelling these days.”

The proprietor lifted his leg up on a stool and hiked up the trouser leg to reveal a wooden replacement. “Lost it to a runaway cart: came loose and rolled down the hill road.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted sympathetically.

The proprietor straightened his leg again. As he did, he looked carefully at Geralt’s eyes. “I think I remember you. Sat in the corner all night, left with the bard. Would you be the same witcher that left basilisk guts on the floor back then? I think it was basilisk. Something big and foul. I remember in a letter he described a witcher drenched in black and red, all except the yellow of his eyes. Made for quite a good drinking story.”

“I paid for the cleaning.”

“Yes, he mentioned that. Heard it stunk something terrible. Wood always was a bit black after. He’s got a smaller place in Caingorn now since he’s retired. Still writes. Does a bit of brewing.”

Geralt took another long draw of his drink and set it down with a hollow _thunk._

“Rumor was that he was travelling with a witcher. You must be it.” The man refilled Geralt’s mug from the pitcher. “Did you come to deliver a message to his family?”

Geralt stopped, mug before his chin, and looked at him impatiently. “Came to see if he’d come home.”

The proprietor snorted. “Not for nearly twenty years. He’ll never set foot in that house, or this town for that matter—not any bit of field or wood for a hundred miles of this place.”

“Why?”

Geralt was not at all surprised to hear the words ‘arranged marriage’ fall from the man’s lips. Jaskier was bull-headed, not one to be forced into anything. Besides, he had a continent full of beds left unexplored. He scoffed at the very idea. He couldn’t be tied down to anything but that lute of his. Even slept cradling the damn thing.

“Not that I blame him, running out the way he did. They intended to marry him off the day he returned home from Oxenfurt. He took to teaching there for a year to extend his stay.” The proprietor busied himself wiping down the counter as he spoke. “They started getting more aggressive in their efforts to bring him home. From what I hear, they meant to bundle him up bag over head and all to bring him home by midsummer. Must’ve caught wind of it. He was packed and gone before they’d hung a single festival flag. Climbed out the window of his room in the wee hours and was on the road, so the story goes.”

Geralt nodded. So Jaskier’s habit of falling out windows was nothing new.

“Must’ve known something we didn’t. Then, it all seemed a bit dodgy when you looked too much into it. You hear plenty of things in a pub, but I’d never heard a word of his intended; not then, and not in twenty years. That’s unusual for the kind of families his folk marry into. Someone’s cousin or grandfather would come home for the holidays having worked at one of those estates with a complaint or two, or a funny story, even whispers of odd habits. My cousin worked for a Marquis who ate only the crusts of pie and tossed the filling to his horse. They’re all an odd bunch, every one of them, but I’ve yet to know someone who knows anything about an Ainsel Moor. Not even sure if the name is right. The arrangements were all very hush. Supposed he’d gotten her knocked up or something of the like.”

Geralt’s grip tightened. He took another drink. “You’d think he’d have written a song about someone with a name like that,” he grumbled. It sounded like the sort of name he might even make up. He could hear a line now, ‘ _Ainsel Moor, my angel evermore,’_ and such. It surprised him that for all the whining he’d inflicted upon Geralt about past lovers that Jaskier had never spoken about it. About any of it. The story had a tragic ring to it, and Jaskier was one to flaunt tragedy whenever it happened upon him. How many times now had he heard him bemoan the state of his affairs with the Countess de Stael?

“Perhaps he had. He was composing a new song last I heard. My brother made sure to copy a bit down in his last letter. I just received it a few days ago.”

Geralt set his drink down with a light clatter. “He was in Caingorn?” he asked. He couldn’t believe that Jaskier would linger so long in one place. He stood from his stool and leaned over the counter. “What did the letter say of him?”

The proprietor startled. “Only that he stayed a few days in the inn. Played a few songs each night for his supper and drink. He experimented with a new slow ballad, then he was gone on the west road. You’d have better luck asking at the estate. They pay a little for what tidbits and news come through about him.”

But Geralt was gone already, his coin left on the counter beside his quarter-full mug.

The west road. He untied Roach and mounted her quickly. If the letter arrived in the last few days, Jaskier would have been travelling only a month or so.

Roach’s hooves beat against the road, hard, rhythmic. Geralt turned her southwest out of town. There was only one thing he could think of that would lead Jaskier west. He grit his teeth and felt like a fool. He ought to have remembered it first thing, but Jaskier’s words to him had been drowned out by his own dishonourable outburst.

He was headed toward the coast.

* * *

Jaskier woke slowly and was aware of the room before he opened his eyes. He felt a soft bed beneath him and the room smelled fresh and floral. When he did open his eyes, the first sight to greet him was a vase of bright purple flowers by his bedside. Monkshood, yellow carnations, and snapdragons. It made a lovely contrast in purple and yellow, but the scent was not something he’d consider the most harmonious. The strong scent was what had roused him, assaulting his poor waking senses. He sat up and petals fell off his chest. There were pink petals and flowers everywhere. He picked one up, and looked in horror at the large bed, wondering what he’d done to wake up in it.

“It’s larkspur.”

Jaskier startled, hitting his head against the backboard in his surprise. “Beg pardon?”

“The flower in your hand. I thought it suited you.”

Jaskier scrambled off the bed and looked past its heavy curtains. For a moment, he was blinded by the sight before him. He found himself in a bright room. There were thick carpets at his feet, and windows all around. A stained skylight above painted the image of a rose upon a bare patch of tile in the middle of the floor. The bed had carved posts in gold leaf with figures of little cherubs with bows and quivers, wound round with ivy and climbing roses. A grand fireplace stood across the way, carved in the same motif. It was opulent, even frighteningly so. But also in poor taste was Jaskier’s second thought. Much too gaudy.

He clutched his chest, heart pounding as he searched the room for his host. It was then he noticed he was in his undershirt. He twisted around, looking at the floor and the bed, and cried out, “My doublet!” He was still otherwise dressed in his trousers and boots. Oh, there’d be dirt on those dear, soft sheets. And then he doubted there’d been anything untoward. He was too filthy to be tempted into anyone’s bed—let alone one so fine—without a bath.

“Forgive me, but it got caught in the wind. I’ve provided a satisfactory replacement, I hope.”

Jaskier rounded on the voice, searching the empty room. He leaned over, trying to spy someone in the doorway, but it was barren. “Have you?” he asked, moving cautiously away from the bed. Then he began to creep toward the tall windows, poking from arm’s length to peep behind the curtains.

“It’s here, by the fire,” the voice replied.

Jaskier turned toward a pair of empty chairs. He was sure … but there was nothing at all to see. He looked up, trying to spot a message pipe or something. He’d seen one in the mansion of some count once. He’d used it to order a plate of food and drinks after a sticky night shared in his chamber. Jaskier knelt down beside the chair to look for one, his hand on the armrest, but there was no such thing.

“I’m here,” the voice came again.

Jaskier jumped up and yelped when a gentle hand laid itself over his. He staggered, fell sprawling into the opposite chair and gaped. There was nothing there! Yet he knew he felt something. Even now, the back of his hand was warm from the brief touch.

“You’re creasing your new jacket, my dear.”

Jaskier sat up slowly, arms braced on the rests. He moved, an unconscious function of his manners, to pull the doublet out from under him. But he gripped it tightly between his fingers like a shield, for the empty chair had clearly spoken.

“Is it to your tastes?” his host asked. “I thought a fresh spring color might cheer you.”

Jaskier lowered his head to look, his eyes snapping back to the chair, afraid that something might appear if he looked away. The doublet was a light cream, embroidered with many colorful flowers in pastels. It was more subtle than his usual clothes pattern-wise, but if he wore anything so spotless in town heads would surely turn. Only the richest fools wore something so delicately white. He was sure his fingers would stain it even now. He carefully set it down on a low table nearby.

“Thank you,” he said. He looked where he imagined he might find his host’s head. He was certain now that he’d been whisked away by some noble fae creature. He swallowed hard, shaking. He tried to recall everything he’d ever learned since early childhood about courtly manners. Even that might not help him. Who knew what fae considered mannerly.

“Did you sleep well? I’m afraid you may have fainted.”

“Very well,” Jaskier replied.

“I worried you might not be comfortable in your boots and travelling things. But I imagine it might be distressing to find yourself in a strange place in unfamiliar clothes. So I elected to leave them.”

Jaskier nodded, aware of the mud that was crumbling off his clothes even now, rubbing into the fine carpets and chair. “Thank you,” he said.

“I came to ask you to breakfast with me.” The disembodied voice still unnerved him, but it remained in place for the moment, speaking from the chair. Jaskier felt that this was for his own benefit, and quite rightly. The voice spoke in reassuring, gentle tones. It sounded much clearer now, something with more character than before. It was a deep, hospitable voice. A gentleman’s voice. Were it not for the current situation and the lack of a body, Jaskier would certainly be reassured. But alas. He was not.

“If you’d prefer, you may have a bath first. There are fresh clothes waiting for you in the drawers and wardrobe, should you like to wear something else. I know that it is not quite spring. You strike me as someone who dresses for the seasons.”

“I do,” Jaskier replied. His own voice was remarkably calm. It seemed unreasonable that it should come out so evenly the way his heart fluttered in his chest.

“A bath, then?”

Jaskier did not know how to respond.

The voice waited. “I can see you’re struggling. Some fortification first. You’ll be able to make decisions better once you’ve eaten.”

A cart came rolling through the door of its own accord, carrying a plate of cold ham, minute eggs, and an assortment of cheeses, jams, and teas. A steaming teapot sat in the middle beside a single place setting. The cart stopped before Jaskier. A napkin unfolded itself onto his lap.

“Was there someone pushing that cart just now?” he managed to ask. It was the first harmless question he could think of.

The voice answered with a flicker of amusement. “No. You’ll find no one here but me. The house itself shall see to your needs.”

“My needs?”

“Yes. I’m often out in the world for my work. I will not be here to attend to you myself during much of the day, it pains me to confess.”

“And why should you be attending to my needs?” He thought for a terrible moment that he’d been accosted from the woods to become some faery’s pet. He knew they loved singing and pretty things, and what was he if not a pretty thing that sang? Geralt had warned him time and again about singing in the woods at night, especially when the moon was full. He couldn’t recall the phase of the moon from last night, but it hardly mattered now.

“Because I promised I would. Though the promise is old and a little dusty from sitting so long, I’ve kept it, and I intend to go on keeping it.”

“And who _are_ you?” Jaskier pressed. What _are you,_ he thought.

There was a shuffle, then the warmth again encased his hands. Jaskier flinched, but strong hands held his, softly pulled them back. He felt something solid as hands pressed his flatly against smooth fabric. He felt a button beneath his palm. There was a heartbeat, perfectly even. A farce of humanity.

“I am Love,” the voice declared, cradling Jaskier’s hands against his chest.

“And I’m king of Redania,” Jaskier mocked, then he bit his tongue.

“No.” He felt the man rise from presumably his knees, until his hands were somewhere just above his head. The man pulled away, raising Jaskier to his feet. The napkin fell from his lap as arms enfolded him. He stiffened, but the voice spoke soothingly in his ear. “You are something far greater now. You are the consort of Love.”

“You will forgive me if I do not quite believe you,” Jaskier said. “And”—nervously—“if I’m confused by your meaning when you call me ‘consort’ of Love.”

The arms left him, but Jaskier still felt something standing closely in front of him. Whatever it was, it did not breathe—or at least it kept forgetting to. Was it trying to appear human? It unnerved him. This thing stood close enough to him to feel its breath when it spoke, but within a few words, he felt nothing at all, though it persisted speaking.

“We are not wed, but the understanding is clear. Until then, I could not lawfully call you husband. Would you prefer ‘intended’? I think that sounds fair, and the meaning remains. Speak freely, I would like your opinion on this matter.”

“My opinion is that this is all overwhelming. I’m speaking to a man I cannot even see, who says that I’m meant to marry him, and I don’t know how I got here in the first place.”

“Forgive me; that would be my own carelessness. I was too eager to explain properly.”

A section of the large window snapped open and a wind blew in, whipping around them. Jaskier was unsteady on his feet, the wind pulling his shirt, knocking him about. Firm arms wrapped around him once more. The voice came again, just as soothing. Though it was not raised above the wind, he could hear it clearly.

“My friend the Wind brought you here to my home. I heard your song carried on its back and I called you here to fulfill your request. And here you are, wrapped in my arms. And here you will know no pain. I will do what is in my power to provide for you any wish you’ve ever had, Julian. Name your desire and I shall grant it.”

Hearing his old name so suddenly shook him. All at once, he forgot about good manners and everything that Geralt and books and professors and old maids and nurses had ever told him about caution when dealing with the fair folk. He had to leave _now._

“Yes, many thanks,” he stammered. “That’s certainly generous of you, but I’ve had my one adventure with an all-powerful wish-granting creature and I’ve no desire to have another, all circumstances considered. Took a lot of ginny-gin-gin to drink that particular memory away. Sorry to be a nuisance. You’ve been most hospitable, but I fear I’ve imposed long enough.”

“This is your home; it would be impossible to impose.”

“Well, ah, it would be my home, if we were married, as I assumed this is your home, and we are not as the case may be. And I would offer a more delicate refusal, but I’m momentarily scattered. I shall write a better one once I find pub with service, or better yet, I’ll toss it to the Wind and it can bring it to you.” He tipped his head, a hand on the handle of the door. “Beg pardon,” he said, and he sprinted through it top speed.

It was a miracle that the door had not shut in his face. Jaskier tore down the corridor, following the long rug down the hall. He did not stop to admire the windows or the pictures set in their colorful glass. He was not dazzled by the chandelier above. He did not even register the grand vases set in their many shallow alcoves. When he came to a great empty expanse, he did not linger to try his voice against its echoes, nor to trot a playful waltz over the patterned tile where surely there might be many dances.

In fact, he did not pay the slightest attention to how many halls he passed, nor how many times he’d turned a corner. He found no stairs, nor anything that resembled a grand entryway. Then, at last, he saw a wide double door in the center of the wall, welcomed by a wide hall with windows high up toward the ceiling. That looked likely. He dashed to it and threw the doors wide with a _bang!_

And he saw the bed with all its pink flowers, the armchairs, and the cart, its teapot still steaming gently.

“Have you changed your mind and returned to your breakfast?” Love asked. The voice came once more from the chair, as if he’d been lounging leisurely while waiting for him.

“I’ll have to take it on the road,” Jaskier replied, feeling tired and hot. He was sure the door had been set on the left side of the room, not the center. And it had been a single door. When he ran out of the room, he looked back behind him, and it was just so. He was in the narrow hall again with windows on either side that reached from floor to ceiling.

He ran, making sure to keep in one direction. He counted the corners, sure to never turn more than three times in any direction before turning in the other. He would not loop around again. His heart pounded in his chest and there was a warm sweat building on his back, but he kept running. He was good at it. Keeping up with Geralt on the road had taught him endurance, as had running from a variety of monsters. He knew he could run a fair while. If he could find the exit, he could be on the road and out of harm’s way within an hour.

This time, he found a single door tucked in a corner. It looked like the sort of door he’d known as a child, running around his parents’ estate. It was a servant’s door, conveniently out of the way so that they might come and go without disrupting the house. He’d explored it many times, sneaking out to visit town, or simply to flirt with the prettier kitchen maids. That door had led to a stairway, down into the kitchen. There was always a door in and out of kitchens. He yanked it open wide.

A steaming bath greeted him, its clawed feet shining with light from the windows. White petals and yellow both floated on the surface. A vial of scent was pouring itself into the water and a towel was draped neatly over the lip of the tub as he watched.

“Ah,” the voice said beside it. “You look flushed. I thought it would be best to prepare the bath for when you’re done stretching your legs. It can be quite strenuous, especially at the speed with which you’ve chosen to do it. A nice relaxing bath will clean you up, help you feel at home. It ought to be cool enough by the time you’re done, but don’t dally too long or it’ll get cold.”

Jaskier gawked at the empty air. Then he turned, looked at the door. It was set in the right side of the room now, but it was doubtlessly the same room. There was the vase of flowers. There was the handsome doublet on the low table.

He turned heel and bounded back once more.

“The old-fashioned way, then!”

He fumbled along the windows, looking for a clasp or a hinge: anything that might open it. Then, finding nothing, he braced himself and rammed the glass with his shoulder. He tried again, then again, running and leaping, but the glass would not break. He slipped to the ground, panting. Sweat ran down his temple. His shoulder ached. This was the first window he’d ever encountered that he could not escape through. He glared up at it, feeling betrayed. No window had ever failed him before.

He gasped when he felt something touch his arm. The air shifted and he felt something by his side. Love’s voice came from close beside him, as if leaning at his knee.

“Come. Take your bath and be settled. Have no fear. Have your breakfast and take a rest.”

Jaskier shook his head, still trying to catch his breath.

A hand passed lovingly over his brow. “Your hair is sticking,” Love said. “I will leave you to collect your thoughts. I wish I could stay longer, but there is work waiting for me, and I shall not return until late this evening. Be patient for me and we will discuss this properly when I return.”

Jaskier recoiled when warm lips met his forehead.

“I should have liked your first morning here to be a peaceful one, but I’m afraid this was conducted all wrong. We had better plans before.”

“What plans?” Jaskier asked, his throat dry.

But there was no reply.

Jaskier waited, looking and listening all around, but he was alone. He could feel it somehow. There was a new quality to the air. So he rested against the coolness of the window and let his heart catch up to him.

Then, he began to laugh.

He laughed and laughed until he was lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. Gradually, he caught his breath. No matter where he ran, which door he took, he would only end up here again. There was no window to crawl from this time.

He sighed and lay his head against the floor with his arms sprawled at his side.

“I wonder,” he mused, “if it would help my situation any to tell him I’m otherwise engaged.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As those more clever of you who are well-versed in your mythology might have already guessed, this story flirts with themes from the legend of Cupid and Psyche, as well as Hades and Persephone. And for those doubly in the know who have studied your flowers, you might guess at the nature of Love's character as well. And if not, there's always google.
> 
> Toss a comment to your writer, oh readers of plenty. We're under quarantine and I'm a bored and lonely man adrift in isolation. I have eaten so many croissants. My figure shall soon be deliciously irreparable. I am distraught  
> Edit: rereading, autocorrect in Word has me looking like an absolute FOOL. "Great" and "through" did me dirty in particular.


	4. Fearful Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note before you begin. Some might find Love's forward behaviour and advances in this chapter uncomfortable. Keep the nature of the story in mind as you are reading so that you will not be taken by surprise by anything unpleasant.
> 
> 7778

They travelled hard that day to keep ahead of bad weather. There was a point while headed west that the road split into two different paths. One was well worn from travellers over the years, with open air and visibility, wide enough to host carts and wagons. The second path led through a wood and was sheltered, though the path was narrower from exclusive foot travel. Geralt steered Roach onto it, knowing this would be the path Jaskier would take.

“He’s more afraid of highwaymen than of wild monsters,” Geralt said. _That idiot_. He was only so confident in the woods because he had Geralt to bail him out of trouble whenever he was in them. Before meeting Geralt, he’d been in plenty of scrapes with highwaymen and robbers on the open roads, he dejectedly confided one night after a rousing rendition of the Ballad of Billy Bywater: some highwayman who drowned his victims in the river.

_“Off with the riches and merchant man’s daughter,_

_’Twas death by Billy Bywater!”_

Geralt had chuckled once into his mug and asked, “Is it death by Billy by water, or by Billy Bywater?”

“So you _are_ listening!” Jaskier exclaimed. He sidled joyfully into the chair across from Geralt, grabbing his drink. “That’s where the cleverness comes in. We never say how the merchant is killed, but we all know that the famous Billy Bywater got his name from robbing along the great rivers of this land, and all his victims were found in a dead man’s float on their banks. So ’twas death by Billy Bywater by water! And it makes it so fun to say.”

“Hm,” Geralt hummed pleasantly. It was a popular song in that part of the country and the innkeeper had been generous with her pitcher while Jaskier sang it.

Jaskier sighed, his mug drained, and leaned back in his seat. “I used to be afraid to sing that song, you know. Thought it might mark me as his next victim if he heard a less flattering verse. But now I have myself a reliable travel companion with a scowling mug that could scare of an entire crew of highwaymen!”

Geralt grunted, his attention returned to his drink.

Jaskier leaned on the table, chin in his hand, and mooned at him. “Oh, come now, Geralt; you know I think the world of you. I’ve never seen a more handsome smile—but you’re a frightening sight when you scowl at your foes! A useful trait, and quite attractive provided you’re not on the receiving end.”

“Shut up and drink,” Geralt said. Drinking had a delightful side effect on Jaskier: it made him moony and somber much of the time—and blessedly quiet.

“Will do!” Jaskier replied. He snatched Geralt’s drink and raised it high with a cheer, and the cheer was echoed all around them. With four great gulps, he drained the mug, ale running down his neck, into his collar, and he tossed it carelessly back to Geralt before skipping off to sing another verse to the delight of the other bar patrons.

That night, in the midst of his meditation, Geralt had to redirect his thoughts more than once from recalling with interest the roll of a golden drop of ale down Jaskier’s neck.

He thought of that night now as he rode Roach into the woods. That memory was years old. He thought he’d gotten rid of it by now. With a shake of his head, it left him, but there were many more thoughts that plagued him in its stead. If Yennefer were with him, he was sure they’d stay buried in the back of his mind, just as they did when they spent the night together. But they were stubborn now, all coming forward in the absence of the two. He tried to remember nothing but the smell of lilac. His memory provided orange blossom.

“Fuck,” he said, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

Roach flicked an ear back, concerned.

“Never you mind.” He patted her neck to reassure her. “It has nothing to do with you.”

She seemed satisfied. Then, she craned her neck back, nipping at the air by his hip.

Geralt rubbed her ear, once again baffled. She’d done this more than once since they left Caingorn. He couldn’t understand the reason for it. Every now and then, when Geralt spoke to her, she turned to nip at something. He couldn’t tell if she was trying to get his attention or if she had an itch. So he scratched her and petted her, made a fuss of her in his fashion, and they’d continue on their way. But what baffled him was that she was always in a huff afterwards. What was he doing that disappointed her? It was hard enough knowing that Jaskier and Yennefer were upset with him, but Roach? It was enough to drive a man mad!

He didn’t exactly brood in the saddle. He certainly wasn’t happy, but brooding was for people like Jaskier. And once more, Jaskier invaded his thoughts. It was so much easier to ignore him when he was right there, making a lot of noise and _forcing_ Geralt to put an effort into ignoring him. Especially when he started explaining his many, _many_ sources of inspiration.

 _“Flaxen curl, my green-eyed girl, I left you in the meadow,”_ Jaskier sang. “That was my encounter with a lovely seamstress named Primrose. I spent a week in town and in the fields with her while I waited for her father to sew me my summer doublet for the season. It was remarkable: all sunset colors with shiny beading on the seams. I wore it for two summers before I lost it in my great hurry to climb out of a blacksmith’s window before his wife came in the room. ‘ _Arms of iron to enfold this boy with blazing heart of gold’_ was inspired by _that_ affair. Of course, the more romantic audiences prefer the one about the ‘ _bonny blue-eyed blossom, the lass left by the lake.’_ Now I made her into a nymph in my rendition, but I’d wholly believe it was true! Such a beauty. If she’s not been made some fantastic thing of nature by now, the gods are fools. And then there’s the one from last spring, the song of t—”

“Have you ever written a song about someone you _haven’t_ fucked?” Geralt asked, growing quickly weary of the conversation.

“Several. I’ve written about _you_ , haven’t I?” And Jaskier had laughed and strummed up the opening to ‘Toss a Coin.’

Geralt had wanted to strangle him.

“That might’ve been easily fixed,” he murmured now. But there were too many reasons that prevented him from ever so much as thinking about it.

Firstly, Jaskier was his friend. He’d never give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud, though it was wordlessly understood—and he’d be a prick about it for months, introducing himself as Geralt’s _friend_ at every opportunity, using the word over and over with comical emphasis until someone shut him up, waving the word like a badge of honour. He was the first non-witcher to embrace his company. It was rare. It was something he couldn’t taint with further complication. Monsters hadn’t scared him off. Who knew what would.

The second was that Jaskier was too free. He cared for nothing and held no loyalties to anything but his muse and his music. Today he was Jaskier’s muse, but who knew about tomorrow. No, he’d given up that privileged position when he left Jaskier on the mountain. Tomorrow was today, and Jaskier would be in search of a new muse. But even then, he’d had a number of muses when they travelled together, and those others knew Jaskier’s company in a way he could not. He wanted to be a part of that fortunate company, but not as another passing number. He knew Jaskier did not trifle with people in love, that his affairs were conducted with others forced into marriage for reasons beyond their control, or tricked into bed with those who did not confess the whole of the story, and consequently he’d be chased out by one angry spouse or other. He was no malicious adulterer, and when he found a fleeting love, he did not tarnish it by keeping another. Here there was no spouse to chase him off in the small hours of morning, no arrangement to keep him at bay. But Geralt was afraid that one day Jaskier would tire of him. There were things only a woman could provide, and he might miss them if he stayed with a man. He wondered if that was why Jaskier flitted from one partner to another, never making up his mind. If he were free, he wouldn’t have to, and his needs were always satisfied.

But the worst fear that plagued him was something much more simple. It was the knowledge that Jaskier was so undeniably, so unfortunately, so unfairly human. And one day, he would grow old and die, if he was not first stolen from him by disaster or disease.

Yennefer was beautiful, just as witty and full of life. She was a sorceress and would not age and die like a mortal human. Her lifetime would match, perhaps even outlast his own. She had wanted him before the djinn’s influence, and might have gone on wanting him if he hadn’t fucked that up as well by making the damn wish. And she knew what it meant to be monstrous like him. They shared things between them that he could never confide in Jaskier. She was a good match. So he focused all his attentions on her, and what wonderful reciprocation while it lasted! He wanted to love her. He tried so hard. But one little _What If_ clutched that last piece of his heart and he could not give it away. And now he’d lost her anyway. He’d lost them both.

The clacking of teeth roused him.

Geralt blinked and found dark eyes staring at him. It was Roach, her ears turned back with worry. They’d been on the road a long time now, and the sky was turning dark. He would be walking at her side much earlier than this most days. It was clear she was confused, a little unnerved.

Geralt dismounted and patted her side apologetically. “I’ve been in my head these last hours,” he said. “Forgive me.”

She nudged his shoulder with her snout and nickered.

He smiled. “Come on. Let’s find a place to rest for the night. We’ll catch up with him soon enough. The coast is another two days on foot.” He took up her reins and guided her in search of a good sheltered spot. “Who knows? We may meet him in the morning.”

She turned her head to nip back again. He rubbed her flank, still wondering what the trouble was. When they broke camp, he promised himself he’d check her for any signs of blisters or bites. He couldn’t have _everyone_ upset. At the very least, he hoped Roach would be happy.

“If you only knew the drama that happened around you,” he joked.

It took some work to get a fire going; for a while, the wind kept blowing out what sparks he could manage. At last he got the fire going well enough that the wind would no longer be trouble, and he could groom Roach by its light. He whistled for her.

And whistled again.

There was a delighted whinny from behind him, muffled. He turned to look and Roach had her snout buried in one of the saddlebags. She was pawing at the ground, her tail swaying happily.

“Hey!”

Geralt scrambled to her and tried to pull her face out of the bag. She was usually disciplined, but she dug her nose further in, determined to have whatever it was that she was after. It was a harder fight to remove her than it had been to get the fire started. But at last, with a great push of her head in one direction and a slide of the bag in the other, he won out.

 _“You’re_ not getting groomed tonight,” he scolded. He wagged a finger once in her face. “Naughty.”

She nuzzled at his finger, playing cute.

Geralt’s stern gaze dropped and he patted her snout affectionately. Of course she’d always win—a little like someone else he knew. She’d become spoiled while he wasn’t watching.

“What were you after?” There was no food in that bag, nor any potions. There was nothing but his coin purse, some flints and spare gloves, his whetstone, and a few miscellaneous necessities. He dug through it, searching, and as he moved a small bundle, his nose was filled with a powerful scent of peppermint that had been otherwise buried. He opened the bundle, revealing a small pile of peppermint candies.

Roach gave a short whinny as he held it out of reach. She pushed over his shoulder, tongue out, trying to snatch one. Her weight fell over him and he quickly closed his hand before he could fall and scatter the peppermints on the ground. And he laughed.

“So, that’s what he’d been sneaking you before,” he said. “I thought you were being nicer to him than usual. Now I know why.”

She nipped at his hands and tried to take the bundle and its precious contents.

“Fine. It’s been a hard ride. You may have _one_.”

The moment the peppermint was in her mouth, she went trotting off through the trees gleefully, running laps in and out of the firelight.

Geralt shook his head, smiling. So the bard had bribed her into liking him. He wondered how he’d known what would work. He’d never thought of giving Roach such a treat. It came to mind now, however, in a sliver of memory: Roach had tried to eat a bit of mint growing beside the road, and again, leaning over someone’s garden fence, out of a window planter, sniffing a little too close to a booth at a vegetable market.

It was just like Jaskier to take notice. He probably had a little note about it tucked away in his book. He held the bundle closer to his nose, inhaling the fresh scent. He’d leave the treats themselves for Roach to enjoy. There was something underneath the peppermint. It was something earthy, familiar.

Geralt frowned and held the bundle closer to the fire to inspect it. It was a linen handkerchief, a little simple embroidery around the edge. Jaskier’s handkerchief.

Something crumpled in his chest. Jaskier had put it in his bag. He’d probably expected to be able to go in and out of it, feeding Roach her peppermints as they travelled together. There were several peppermints. It might last a month or two, sparingly given. He wondered how often Jaskier would be sneaking them, nearly caught. What he’d say when he _was_ caught finally, for he was never much good at sneaking. He’d probably have shared them with Geralt or persuaded him to give Roach a treat himself. He could see it: some night by the fire, the three of them with a mint each in a quiet moment. He’d never be persuaded to eat one until they’d gotten to the very last, and he expected Jaskier would find some way to force him by then. And his handkerchief would be empty, still smelling of peppermint. He wondered if Jaskier would wash it and return it to his pocket, or if he’d fill it again with another kind of treat. Or perhaps he would simply fold it up and return it to Geralt’s bag, because he could go to it whenever he wanted.

Geralt clasped his hands together and leaned forward to brace his forehead against them. He breathed the faint scent in, trying to find it beneath the sweet mint. And for a moment, he could close his eyes and pretend Jaskier was there at his camp, lounging on the other side of the fire. He heard an echo of the Ballad of Billy Bywater, annoying, bouncy, and just the sort of thing he’d sing to make the woods a little less dark and towering.

He stopped.

He smelled something further down the trail.

Geralt jumped up from the earth and began running through the woods, the little bundle still clutched in his hand. His heart thundered in his chest. His feet hammered against the fallen pine. Somewhere behind him, he heard Roach’s startled snort and heavy hoofbeats, but they didn’t register. The only thing he was conscious of was the scent that grew stronger and stronger as he raced through the darkness.

And there it was.

A little patch of hard dirt, a hole dug out of the ground, burned black twigs and branches leaning on one another. The remains of a campfire. He scented the air, filling his lungs with it.

Jaskier.

And there was something more. He smelled a company of men as well.

Frantic thoughts overwhelmed him as he imagined the worst. Jaskier, beaten from his sleep by strange malicious men on the road. But there was no struggle here. There was no blood, no sweep in the dirt or footprints to suggest a fight. But there was, just the barest hint of it, the leftover tang of fear hidden in the smells that pervaded the camp. It smelled like Jaskier. And it smelled _fresh._

Geralt’s hands gripped into tight fists. The peppermints cracked.

He returned to his camp, smothered the fire, and packed up his gear. He called Roach to him and she came directly. She could smell the determination and anger radiating off him. He saddled her once more and swung himself over her back. There, he leaned down, let Roach smell the handkerchief. Tentatively, she took one mint in her mouth. He patted her neck, tied the bundle, and tucked it in his pocket.

“Let’s get that bastard back,” he all but growled.

Roach took off at a gallop where Geralt directed her. Even in the dark, she trusted his sight to find the path. And there was nothing that would deter him now. Not on the warpath he rode.

* * *

Jaskier sighed, too bored now to be afraid. It was remarkable how quickly he became used to the worst situations. It was evident that this _Love_ character, while clearly insane, would not be doing him harm anytime soon. But he wasn’t foolish enough to be without caution. He remembered fairy tales now with poisoned combs or waters that washed memories away when employed carelessly. He’d spent a good half hour or so glaring at the warm tub, debating what trickery lay so innocently in its purpose.

But it had been so _long_ since he’d last been clean. There was sweat on his skin, old and so very new alike. There was mud in his boots, between his toes, the roots of his hair were greasy, and the water was tempting.

And maybe it was a little unwise, but he checked the room to be sure he was absolutely alone, and finding he was, quickly stripped of all but his boots and scooted over the side of the tub, feet hooked on the edge. He dipped under the water, held his breath a moment, then popped back up with a sigh. Then just as quickly, he washed his face and began to scrub himself clean. There was a little stool beside him with soaps and vials. He smelled each one, then chose a nice orange blossom to rub into his scalp, delighted to find a favored scent even in such a strange place as this. That little familiarity made him feel right, more confident. No villain was a match for a refreshed Jaskier, shining clean, perfumed and prepared. He was sure to keep his bath reluctantly short and he dried quickly. To finish things off, he removed one boot at a time to wash his feet, making sure to keep the boot clutched in his arms as he did. One needed one’s boots to get home from fairyland, and he was sure that he _was_ in fairyland.

So he stood bare but for his boots and a towel, and leaned against the tub as he thought what the next best move might be. He took a brush from the stool and cleaned his boots as he did. He might wash his clothes next and let them dry on the fireplace grate. Did he need his clothes to return home, or was it only his boots? His mother had only ever emphasized boots in her stories, and the maids and nurses he’d known had warned him about taking food. He eyed the cart warily. His stomach rumbled.

He washed his clothes in the bath and argued with his stomach. “Now look; you can’t go accepting every little comfort that comes your way simply because it’s there. You’re a hardy man now, and you can live without a meal or two until you find your escape.”

But his stomach lent him an opposing argument, which his mouth provided readily.

“However … to offend a fae by refusing a gift might have poor consequences. And if I have only until evening to find an escape, he might return as I’m in the middle of things, and he’d see the pot now gone cold and the plate untouched and think I’ve scorned him. After all, he did not take offence to my running through his halls—he is very sure of my captivity. I’ll probably have an hour of further tries and I’ll be left with nothing else to do afterwards. Any further refusal of such a lovely meal in the face of having nothing to occupy my time would be taken as stubbornness or spite, and to _spite_ a fae is _particularly_ offensive. And I couldn’t, after all, keep up the energy to continue my search without a bit of something to keep me going. And, _oh ho.”_

He looked down at his stomach and gave it a smack. “Oh, you _are_ chatty. But no, I will _not_ have a bit of it. You’ve stolen my wit, it would seem, but I’ll not let you keep it.”

To distract himself, he finished cleaning his clothes, wrung them out, and took the whole bundle of them to the fireplace. He hummed and set them to hang dry. He supposed he might wear something from the wardrobe while he waited, though he would not take the floral doublet. It was not springtime yet. And it he were being a little more honest, he was curious to see what hid behind the great polished wood doors. “Perhaps a secret door or escape route,” he said, as if any sensible person might hear and judge him this little indulgence.

And oh the gods, the clothes that dangled before him. Every color was represented in the many fashionable suits, vests, jackets, trousers, and shirts. There were tights and stockings, boots and heeled dancing shoes with buttons, buckles, and ribbon. Silks! Brocade! Tulle and lace! It was finer than an emperor’s closet, and it glittered under his beguiled gaze.

He shut the wardrobe with an offensive crash and turned to brace himself against the doors. “No. No. No-no-no, definitely, _no_. Oh, get ahold of yourself you indulgent imp. Think what Geralt would say.”

He winced. He’d been trying very hard _not_ to think of Geralt. Though, he was really thinking of Geralt _again_ , since he’d started thinking of him _before_ when he’d sung. And really, when had he _stopped_ thinking about him in the first place? Going to the coast wasn’t going to solve that problem. If anything, all that time in the quiet contemplative landscape would just soak up everything _but_ those thoughts.

“You’ll be the most decorated eyesore in the pub,” he said, lowering his voice in imitation of Geralt. “A beacon for robbers and highwaymen. People will throw rotten shit to see the shine rub off of those ridiculous shoes.”

He sighed. It helped, yet didn’t help all the same.

Jaskier looked toward the bed. He pulled back the thick comforter—“Of course it’s _down,_ isn’t it?”—and pulled one of the sheets from underneath to wrap himself up inside. And naturally, like everything else in this forsaken place, it was just lovely. Bright embroidered flowers lined its edges, little birds poking here and there, and all of it looking as crisp and fresh as spring. The whole room was a tribute to youth and beauty.

He crossed to the fire, pointedly ignoring the cart. He sat before the grate and stared at the flames, waiting for his clothes to dry. “Fine mess,” he muttered. But he was slithery. He’d find some way out of it. He tested conversations with his host in his head, trying to think of clever responses to common phrases and questions that might win him some unspoken battle or trick his way into being let go. He was very clever in this fictitious battle of wits, but who knew how witty his opponent truly was. The best approach for now was to keep ideas well stocked and to hold his tongue while he could.

* * *

It was midmorning when Geralt arrived at the next town, and he’d long been off Roach’s back. She was a strong horse and she could ride without rest a long time, but they’d already had a long ride in the night before stopping, and he’d pushed her limits again after he’d discovered Jaskier’s camp. He intended to find her a stable or barn in town so she might have a comfortable day’s rest and fresh oats as a reward. Perhaps a few apples. He owed her an apology, and that often came in the form of such treats.

“Good girl,” he said, patting her muzzle as they walked side by side. “You’ve been invaluable on this trek.”

She snorted and nudged him.

“We’ll be there soon. There’s another fence just ahead.”

They’d come upon a number of more rural properties that led up to the town and passed them by. It reassured him that they were getting closer. The scent was stronger now. It drove him on. Whatever apologies he’d rehearsed were buried under a plethora of vile words he’d sling at whoever had taken Jaskier and made him smell of fear. But then again, they might not have the opportunity to hear them. He was hanging on by the last thread of his self-restraint and might just have done with it and bury his sword through their throats.

As he came upon the first townspeople out on the main road, they scurried away or leapt out of his path at the sight of him. He was walking with heavy step, outpacing a tired horse, his brow striped with dirt and sweat, and yellow eyes narrowed forward.

As he turned a bend in the road, he at last spotted a red and scaly doublet plastered over a man’s back, the neck of an elvish lute peeking out from behind. A number of men surrounded the figure, arms around his shoulder.

“Jaskier!” he roared.

The small party turned to look at him with horror as he drew his sword from its sheath. That was when he caught a glimpse of the man in the doublet, a stranger, hands wrapped in fear around the lute, brown eyes wide. The others likewise panicked and began to stumble back.

Geralt marched up to him and grabbed a fistful of the red fabric. With one arm, he dragged the man up close to his face and sneered. “Where,” he rumbled, “did you get this _jacket_.”

The young man was pale with fear. His companions had run off and left him behind.

“I-I found it, when we were—when we were travelling through the—the woods. Someone left it behind. Left everything! Thought maybe he’d been eaten by something. They—th-the folks around here talked about there being something in the woods.”

“Take it off,” Geralt demanded.

Immediately upon being released, the young man dropped the lute and hurried to shed the doublet from his shoulders.

Geralt snatched it from the shaking man’s hands. He grabbed the lute by its strap and slung it over his shoulder. “What else did he leave behind?” he asked. The sun shone off his blade as he tightened his grip.

“Small bag. One of my travel-mates had it.”

The man pointed up the road. Peering out from behind the corner of an inn were two men who’d had their arms around his shoulder moments before.

Geralt tossed the man aside and walked toward them, Roach following a couple paces behind. He did not stop when he—roughly—yanked Jaskier’s bag from one of their shoulders. He kept going until he found the furthest member of their party hiding in a little alley between the buildings. He grabbed the man by his shirt and dragged him back with the rest. The first frightened man had joined the others, cowering behind one of the larger ones. Geralt held the last and looked from face to face. He raised his sword and pointed.

“I’m looking for my companion,” he announced, shaking his captive in his grip. “About this tall. Brown hair, blue eyes. Bard. Talks like his life depends on it. Answers to Jaskier. You have all his worldly goods in your possession—that means _you_ know what’s become of him. So _talk_ before I start running you through.”

“We haven’t seen him! His things were there when we came upon his camp.”

Geralt pointed his sword at the next in line.

The man held his hands up, one to his heart. “Weren’t nobody there all night!”

“I told you: it was the thing in the woods what probably ate him.”

Geralt dropped the man in his fist, directing his attention back to the spindly thing that had been wearing Jaskier’s doublet. As he advanced, the others rushed to raise their fallen friend to his feet.

The young man backed away, cowering under the witcher’s height. “They might pay you to kill it, now that there’s a witcher in town, sir,” he said. “But I swear, none of us knows naught ‘bout your friend.”

Geralt turned and the others froze under his eye. He sniffed at them. There was fear and confusion. And there was not a hint of Jaskier on their clothes, save those two who carried his gear. He turned back to the man before him and leaned in close until his breath could warm the very tip of his nose.

“What _thing_ in the woods.”

* * *

Jaskier awoke with a start and swiped the hand away from his face. Love had returned and was standing by his side, shoe pinning the corner of his sheet. He’d fallen asleep waiting for his things to dry.

“Apologies,” Love whispered.

“Don’t touch me again.”

“I meant only to carry you to your bed. You’ll catch cold if you sleep out on the floor, my dear.”

Jaskier stood, gathering the sheet tight around him. “I’m not your dear,” he said. His heart thrummed in his chest. He hated waking so suddenly. It always put him on the offensive, and this was not the kind of situation to be hot and quick tempered.

“But you are,” Love replied, undisturbed. He picked up the trailing end of the sheet, following after Jaskier.

Jaskier snatched the sheet from him, spotting the towel on the floor. He’d not stand for the sheet to be lifted too high in his current state. Then his eyes rose higher toward the grate. “Where are my clothes?” he asked, feeling a sudden hollowness in his stomach, as if he’d had a fall from a great height.

“Put away neatly in a drawer, I’m certain; the house keeps itself tidy. Look through the drawers if you like, and you can find something to wear in the meantime. Are you cold?”

“No,” Jaskier said. And it was true. He was warmed from the inside, heated by his anger. He’d been a fool to undress. He was sure now that he did, in fact, need his clothes to get home. Whatever Love said, he didn’t trust he’d find them in any of the drawers of the dresser, nor the wardrobe. And he was sure his host would deny having anything to do with it. He cursed himself—perhaps the bath had put a spell on him, lulled him to sleep. But his boots made crisp footsteps beneath him, still on his feet. He tried to put his faith in his own mother’s stories. There was still a chance that was all he needed.

“Then come sit with me. There is much to discuss.”

“I’ll stand right where I am, thank you very much. And you will sit where I can see you.”

“But you can’t see me,” Love replied. He picked up the untouched plate from the cart. It swiveled, as if he were turning. “You haven’t eaten.” He sounded concerned.

“I fell asleep.”

Love put the plate down. “It can be tiring riding the Wind. And you’ve had an unfortunate fright. I knew it was too early for you to be awake this morning. How do you feel?”

Jaskier heard him stepping closer and he backed away, thrusting a hand out from under his sheet. “Fine. Now keep away. Where I can see you, remember?”

“Very well.” Love’s footsteps retreated and Jaskier wondered if he’d made footsteps before. There was a distinctly purposeful scrape as Love sat in his chair. Jaskier’s discarded towel floated up from the ground, folded itself, and settled half a foot in the air above the indented seat. “There,” Love said. “Does this make you more comfortable, Julian dear?”

“No. Now tell me: how do you know my name?”

The towel flattened as if being stroked. Love’s voice came patiently as he spoke. There was evident thought in the words he provided. “You were made for me— _born_ for me—and in time, promised to me. Everything had been arranged and I was to receive you some twenty long years ago, but you disappeared before I could come to collect.”

The use of ‘collect’ set the hairs on Jaskier’s neck standing upright. He ground his teeth and glared at the empty chair. “I wasn’t born for anyone. I was born to be wild and wander, singing of the truths of this world, of its many forms of beauty, of all things free, and of—”

“Of _love?_ ”

Jaskier bit his tongue.

The chair creaked and the towel shifted. Jaskier could almost see a figure there, leaning back comfortably in the crook of the chair, completely at ease with all around him, unworried, unfettered by the hostility of the conversation.

“Yes, to sing of love,” he continued. “To find love in everything. To give and take love freely and in all forms.”

Jaskier watched little indents appear rhythmically against the soft velvet surface of the armchair, as if fingers were drumming the spot.

“Tell me, Julian: how many love affairs have you known? With women? With men? With those defying description? You’ve made tender love, love born of revenge, violent love, fleeting, passionate love, false love …”

The fingers stilled and the divots disappeared.

“Perhaps true love?”

Jaskier leaned silently against one of the bedposts, clutching his sheet.

Love continued. “You’ve known physical love, boundless, touch-less love. The love of admiration and family. I can’t imagine there exists any kind of love you haven’t tried. Is there anything you’ve ever wanted more than to love and be loved?”

“I wanted to be a bard,” Jaskier replied. “I wanted to travel and see the world and sing.”

“What is your singing for but a vehicle with which to express your love. You were born for it. For me.”

Jaskier sneered. Worse than his cutting analysis, he couldn’t stand the confidence with which the thing spoke. He sounded so sure of what he said. And Jaskier hated it. He hated someone thinking they owned him with such certainty.

“Even if I hadn’t gone off into the world, you wouldn’t have had me,” he protested. “If I’d stayed a home, I would’ve been married to some stranger. My parents had it all set, down to the very day they were to hold the ceremony. I only found out through some sorry sod who came to get measurements for a new jacket. He’d gone to measure my inseam. I asked him why and he let slip my parents had arranged for some suit or other to be made for the coming spring. It wasn’t difficult to put two and two together. I remember packing up that very night and slipping out the front gate. I found out later from what rumors flitted around the country about my escape. They’d promised me to some ridiculous peer with an idiotically alliterative name: an Ainsel Moor—”

“Ainsel _Amour_ ,” Love said, cutting his rant short.

But Jaskier was not one to be cut off. “Yes, that,” he said. “Moor, Amour, whatever. Point is, I’ve never heard of her. Not a nasty rumor or word of praise from a single countryman. The only thing worse than marrying a scandal is marrying a bore. I couldn’t even tell you the rank of her peerage. Not the color of her damned _hair_. Or whether she _is_ a she, really. I only knew I was to be married. Could’ve been a man—more money and power in that, if you find the right one. An aunt subjected my cousin to that, but he was not of a similar nature and already had a sweetheart of the fairer kind, poor lad. It was all one frightening, bungled-up mess, and I don’t even have the information to describe the guilty party!”

“Love can be impossible to describe.”

Jaskier stopped. He looked at the winged head of the empty armchair, eyes wide. He stepped forward unknowingly. He needed something to look at. He needed eyes to observe, an expression to pick apart. The twiddling of a hand or twitch of a brow to analyze. Anything more than this subtle voice that spoke to give him some suggestion that his suspicion was unfounded.

“You’re not … you’re not saying?”

The towel fell as Love stood. Jaskier heard the soft puff of impact as a hand touched a vest. The words drifted in the open air.

“Ainsel L. Amour: my own self, Love.”

Jaskier felt the world spin under his boots. All his running, and he’d run in one great circle. “Oh dear gods above have mercy, I may faint.” He fell back against the footboard and groped the bedpost for support.

“I assume you took a new name, for I could not find you wherever I looked. You had become someone new, so I knew not who I was looking for. But you called for me out in the woods last night and at last, I came to collect. You needed me, asked for me to come and take you away, and I could not refuse you after searching for so long. Why now do you keep me at arm’s length?”

Jaskier shivered. Maybe he was cold after all.

“I wasn’t calling for Love. I was calling for _my_ love. You misheard me.”

The voice came closer, pleading. “Don’t you recognize me? I _am_ your Love. I’ve been saying as much all this time.”

“I didn’t call for you!” Jaskier shouted.

“You _invoked_ me. You used my name, asked my attention, there can be no mistake.”

“But there was! I was singing for—”

Jaskier choked on his next words. There was a change in Love at that moment. He caught an image: a flash of eyes frighteningly focused. It was gone as if it had never been, but it was enough for Jaskier to collect his wits. He’d been about to say something that could not be concealed after.

“ … a love I hoped to have one day,” he concluded. He told himself to be clever. To be careful.

The chair creaked quietly. Love was seated once more.

Jaskier closed his eyes. He took a steadying breath, head leaned against the post. Very well, this was a game he could play. He was a loveless romantic lost in a world where there was no love good enough for him, or no love he could trust not to hurt him. He was merely waiting for a true love who would be worthy of his heart. That was his role. So when he opened his eyes, his lashes were damp and he looked forlornly at the carving of a rosebud on the post, running a hand over it as if to avoid meeting eyes. And he was avoiding it, but not for modesty. His eyes were too honest to keep up with the words he spoke.

“I don’t mean to love some stranger,” he said, voice hushed. “I left because of that. I wanted a love that I chose. That I _made_.” The sheet slipped from his shoulder and he adjusted it, covering himself up again. “I wanted a love worked for—a love _wooed._ I could never accept a love thrust upon me.”

Love relaxed. Jaskier could feel the very atmosphere change, becoming rosy. There was a shifting of fabric, then hands were delicately taking his own. Love’s demeanor was pleasant once more when he spoke, his voice supplicating, beseeching.

“Then let me _woo_ you,” Love crooned. “Oh, it would be a privilege. That is all I’ve wished for since the moment I found you in the woods. Will you now allow me to woo you, my dearest?”

Jaskier closed his eyes, kept his head low. To an onlooker, it might appear coy, but Jaskier was trying to remain composed. It was difficult to resist snatching his hands away as Love rubbed a thumb over the back of his knuckles. So he retrieved his hands slowly, retreating gracefully round the other side of the post.

“You … may. But I expect a long courtship.”

“You shall have it!” Love cheered.

“A long courtship,” he repeated. “If you _are_ Love—some eternal, immortal being—and I am meant to love you and live with you until the end of time, then it would be cheap to woo me so quickly. I would have a century’s courtship, nothing less. And I insist on a renewal of our courtship every three _hundred_ years or so, though we might keep the wooing under a decade by that time, since I’d already be won. It’d simply be a playful remembrance.”

“Agreeable terms. Let us seal it with a kiss then.”

Jaskier shrank away as he felt breath on his cheek and he paced to the wardrobe, putting distance between them. He gripped his sheet, staring at the polished wood. “It will be very difficult,” he began, “as I intend to be positively obstinate and play hard to get. Nothing worth having comes easy. And I am demanding. I expect everything. Flowers and poetry—all the trappings of an expensive, _extensive_ courting. And I shall rebuke you often, scorn you at every turn, and refuse to even look at you should the mood strike me, and you’ll never know when it might. And for a long time, I will offer you nothing. That is how the game goes. I make no promises. You may try to win me, but I doubt if you ever shall.”

Love chuckled delightedly. “How strange to win that which is already mine. But I will play your game if it makes you happy. You know I want you to be happy.”

Arms snaked around Jaskier’s hips and the last words were warm at his ear. Jaskier shook out of his grip before it could be closed upon him and he continued walking until he was before the window.

“It would make me _very_ happy to be alone now. You may begin anew tomorrow.”

“You’re difficult,” Love hummed, amused.

“I’m worth it.”

“Are you?”

Jaskier shrugged, feigning indifference. “Or maybe I’m not, in which case it’d be better to send me on my way.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Love sighed. “Oh, yes, I think you are. Such a trifling, incorrigible thing you are. How like the galanthus: so stubborn to grown captive in even the most decorative, lush flowerbed. I think I _must_ keep you.”

“Well, if I’m _any_ kind of wildflower, I’m sure you’d mean a da—”

“Very well!” Love interjected, excitement in his voice. He seized Jaskier’s hands and clutched them to his heart just as he’d done in the early morning. “I shall begin tomorrow at first light. A month and you’ll long for my embrace, I guarantee! But I shall be most conservative until the end of the century, so you might know equal longing, for I, too, enjoy a good tease. Yes, you are _exactly_ as I wished you’d be, Julian. You shall always keep that youthful playfulness marked by your name.”

Jaskier yanked his hands back, caught up in his surprise at Love’s energetic change. “Yes, yes, now please go. I’d like to be rid of you awhile to be cross for an hour or two. Go to your planning or whatever. I’m a _delicate flower_ , as you say, and I need peace and alone time. Wildflowers grow _away_ from people who would continue to harass and pluck them.”

He waved his offended hands meaningfully.

Love laughed, hearty and whole. “Very well, my blossom. Pleasant dreams. And I promise you a glorious sight in the morning to come.”

The presence vanished again, leaving Jaskier alone in the room.

Jaskier let out a ragged breath and lay his head against the glass. That had been difficult. His chest was tight and still he could not wholly relax, anxiety pricking under his skin where his blood was rushing and making him shake. He looked out into the fading golden light.

“Please,” he begged, his voice no more than a breath. It fogged the glass where it touched. “Please let that be enough time. You’ve always had such excellent timing when I needed you.”

He did not dare to even think the name, lest his thoughts be loud enough to hear. He feared the very hint of Love’s wrath that he had seen. It had broken through whatever spell concealed him.

Exhausted, he flopped down on the bed and threw a pillow over his eyes with a groan. Tomorrow there’d be a surprise waiting for him at first light.

“It’d better not be his cock,” he spat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, this was a long one. I hope it gives you plenty to talk about in the comments. Fuel me that I may keep up this endless pace.


	5. Fight and Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gore warning. Geralt guts some ghouls.
> 
> 3955

Geralt was not prepared for the battle that found him in the woods.

The group of travellers directed him to the town church. There, the pastor related to him the same that he’d told the travellers when they sought answers.

“For the past month or so, our town has been ravaged by ghouls,” the pastor explained. “I have heard accounts from one of our travelling brothers that such attacks have been witnessed in many other towns, both small and large. They are more frequent than they’ve been in recent memory, and old battlegrounds have made themselves known by the appearance of these beasts.”

The pastor stroked his temple as if to rub away the stories brought home. “I believe it may be the unrest in the land that has stirred them to life. Word has reached the northernmost edge of the Continent: Nilfgaard is bringing war.”

“The only thing that wakes a ghoul is a fresh corpse,” Geralt replied. Or any human foolish enough to encroach upon its territory.

“There was a battle in those woods in my great-grandfather’s time. The war dead were buried in a cemetery at its heart. Our fear is that the ghouls have expanded their territory to hunt those travelling the road through it. Much of the trade we expect this time of year has become delayed and, if the problem persists, it may affect the quantity of our harvest come fall. We rely on the help of seasonal workers as well as the supplies brought from nearby towns. Travel between us is important."

Geralt shifted his weight. “And you want me to see to it that future travellers go undisturbed.”

The pastor nodded. “We’ve had funds set aside, waiting for a witcher on the Path,” he said. He stepped up behind the podium and toward the church’s back wall. There was a wooden box nailed to it. He opened it and retrieved a small bag. “Will you go to the wood?” he asked.

Geralt didn’t bother to size up the amount. He was already making for the door, ready to scent out the rotting flesh of the ghouls. “Stable my horse,” he called back. He’d return for her and the coin after, ghoul head in tow. His blood boiled. Jaskier had better have had the sense to run. He’d better have simply left his things behind in his hurry to flee. But above all else, he’d better be alive.

The walk did not register one bit. He could not later recall how long it’d taken. One moment, he was imagining Jaskier running through the trees, ghouls on his heels, and the next, he was standing in the middle of the woods. It was dark there despite the daylight above as very little was able to sneak through the thick canopy. He made his way deeper toward the heart where he might find the cemetery. At this time of day, the ghouls would be at rest in the earth among the corpses. He’d wake them soon enough.

Before he reached the place, he drew his sword. There was a light path where family members made their visits over the years. He knew the cemetery would be at its end. However, if it were true that the ghouls were expanding their territory, one might burst from the ground at any moment, especially if they feasted on those unrecovered war dead that were not taken into graves. They would be buried by nature anywhere. There would be no warning.

His medallion hummed against his chest as the cemetery first came into view. It was stronger than a simple ghoul problem would signify. He’d come prepared for a pack of five or thereabouts. But the ground rumbled as something shook below, disturbed by the presence of silver in the nest. And from the ground rose a bulking _cemetaur_ , flanked by an entourage of graveirs _._

For anyone but a witcher, a cemetaur meant certain and unpleasant death. And even now in the midst of his rage-blind quest, Geralt gave pause. It was _large_. And it was far from alone. Lesser ghouls wriggled from the loose dirt, joining the growing party. Geralt hastily pulled a potion from a small bag at his hip, uncorked it, and swallowed it down. Pain seared into his temples and raced behind his eyes. There was a stabbing chill through his heart as the potion ran through his veins. Then, his heart began to race inhuman. When the first ghoul made its leap, his sword was quick to take to the air and stab down its throat. It was a graveir that slid down to his hilt. He shook it off just as quickly, lest it sink its cadaverine-riddled teeth into his hand in its death throes.

The heavy rotting scent of old flesh clouded the air as he mutilated the ghouls one by one. He carved a path of corpses to reach the cemetaur, knowing she might call more ghouls from the woods—if she hadn’t already—to overwhelm him in the fight. He howled as the cemetaur knocked him away, evading his attack. The other ghouls were an inconvenience, an annoyance that kept getting underfoot. They garbled and screeched with unholy wails, but he was deaf to them the next minute. He kicked at them, threw them aside with a burst of power, or knocked their soft disease-ridden heads against the trees when they leapt on his arms.

Ichor black and repugnant as pitch coated his hair and his shoulders. He knew he’d been clawed and cut where his armor left him exposed, but he felt nothing else besides the fury and the potion mixing in his blood. Not even their stench could reach him now.

The second graveir caught him by surprise from behind while he tried to cleave a gash in the cemetaur’s arm. He fell back against a headstone as it clawed at his face. Repeatedly, he tossed his head back, listening to the shriek of the thing as it spilled its foulness behind him on the grave. He pounded back until it shrieked no more.

He panted. Then he rolled to one side as the cemetaur swung at him. He took to his feet swiftly, sword ready. With a roar, he made for it. He could have stunned it with magic. He might have come from behind and taken it by surprise. But he did not.

Geralt slashed its head from its shoulders. He hacked the decapitated skull until it cracked. A ghoul closed around his arm and he bashed it with the pommel of his sword. Then, he pivoted round and, with a great cry, he sliced down the creature’s stomach. The air was made rancid anew as its vile guts emptied at his feet.

For a moment, Geralt could only stand there in the stillness among the carcasses, breathing hard. Then, he tossed his sword aside. He bent and rummaged frantically through the open stomach of the giant cemetaur, searching. He huffed and gagged as he slowly came back to the world where the retched smell could reach him. There were bones of deer, of wolves. Dry, ancient bones crumbled beneath his hands. There was the half-digested flesh of a beaver and its tail. But no cloth. No sign of any fresh human remains.

No Jaskier.

Geralt sat back on his heels. He stared at the carnage.

He chuckled. He laughed. He threw his head back, delirious as the last of the potion’s effects faded away. The contents of the cemetaur’s guts soaked through his trousers and squelched in his boots, but he laughed until he could no longer draw breath.

Then hung his head in his hands. They were warm and black with retch, but he took no notice. Jaskier would scold him and warn him not to touch his face. He would tell him to hurry up and collect whatever bits he was meant to bring back for his pay so they could get on with it and get him in a tub before the smell rubbed off on him. And Geralt laughed because he might get the chance to hear it again.

“He’s not here,” he said. It needed saying aloud, just to make it true. “He’s not here.”

He took a moment to let himself feel the relief wash over. Jaskier was somewhere out there, possibly nearby. He could still find him.

Geralt picked up his sword and wiped it on his shirt as best he could before sheathing it. He picked up one of the ghoul’s heads that was decent enough to manage carrying back alone. Jaskier might be in town now, waiting for him. He might’ve already heard of a witcher in town gone out to slay the ghouls. In an hour or two, he might find himself in a tub of hot water, Jaskier’s fingers rubbing oils in his hair, or poking at his cuts, admonishing his bruises. In an hour he might take back those words in Caingorn.

* * *

Jaskier stirred when he heard the clack of a window slide against its frame. Warm sunlight poured over his face and he heard a deep voice hum pleasantly nearby. A light breeze caressed him, ruffled his hair, but he only pulled the covers higher around him. Despite his best efforts, he was waking. The wonderful scent of flowers and honeyed porridge pulled at him, beckoning.

“Close it, you great bumbling brute,” he said, still half dreaming. “Nobody decent ever wakes up so early.”

“It may be that I am indecent then,” came the reply. But it was not in the familiar voice he expected to answer.

Jaskier was wide awake now and he sat upright in bed.

There was a hazy outline in the sunlight by the window. Jaskier could see it, like a figure made of water seen from the corner of one’s eye. Arms reached wide to throw aside lush curtains. And it turned, arms still joyously raised.

“You will forgive me for waking you. I try to steal what time I may before my work must begin, and I promised you by first light. I have been out in the world all night, preparing.”

Jaskier fell back against the high cushions and rubbed his eyes with his palms, groaning. “And what, pray tell, have you been preparing?” he asked.

Love chuckled. “You’re less formal upon waking. You do not seem so afraid this morning as you did yesterday.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not about to make any pretenses before breakfast. Give my brain a minute to catch up to my mouth.” He yawned and sunk lower, already annoyed at whatever events awaited him in the next few minutes and reaching into the next few weeks. “You’re a chatty git. I’ll give you one piece of advice: if you want to win my heart, let me have my fill of sleep.”

“It was a necessary mark against me. You _must_ come to the window now while the sun is at its clearest. Please, come and look.”

Jaskier whined in protest as the blankets were pulled away. He managed to keep his sheet and he tugged it back defensively. “Alright, alright!” He wrapped himself in the sheet and swung his booted feet to the floor.

“Did you wear those _all_ night?” Love asked, baffled. It was the least lofty thing he’d spoken since Jaskier arrived.

“My feet were cold,” Jaskier muttered.

“There are stockings in the drawers.”

“I didn’t feel like taking them off. Best get used to eccentricities.”

“I suppose I shall have to.”

Jaskier clomped his way to the window, boots dragging. _So, they do open_ , he thought. Before, only a small part had opened to allow the Wind to enter: a panel too small for any human to fit through. It was possible they only opened for his host, but he could try it later himself if he needed to. This might be a golden opportunity to explore the outer grounds of the house and find an escape. Every fortress had its weaknesses; even those that rearranged themselves. If he went through no doorway, such as in a garden or on a lawn, he might not return to where he’d begun. It would help to have a distant landmark to run to without getting turned around. No spell could rearrange the open air without notice.

As he approached the windows that made up the wall, Love parted them like a folding screen. Jaskier took a moment to look at him. It was difficult, but there was _something_ there that he could just barely make out in the sunlight. It was the suggestion of a form. If he tried hard, he might fleetingly catch the profiling ridges of a face. He squinted, trying to force character out of it. The grip of a hand on his chin startled him and he drew in a sharp breath. But Love merely turned his face away, outward.

The scene that met his eyes dazzled him.

A landscape filled to the brim with every kind of flower imaginable. The Wind whirled up a storm of petals and blew them skyward. They burst into the air up high and rained down. Love gave him a push from behind. Jaskier staggered forward into the shower. He lifted a free hand to let the petals fall into his palm. Blue, pink, yellow and orange, purple—they were all there in their many shades and hues. Long petals, short, fat ones, smooth and ruffled! He could not help the impressed chuff that escaped his lips.

“Huh!”

“Well, go on then,” Love encouraged.

Jaskier was too stunned to protest as his hand was taken and wrapped in the crook of an invisible arm. He let himself be led out into the sea of flowers.

His fingertips brushed against daisies and geraniums. He was overwhelmed with the heavy scent of lilies and lavender and a thousand other things he could not identify. There were trees, too, all in blossom. He plucked the head of a rose and crumpled it, feeling the velvety texture of the petals beneath his thumb. It was wet where the petals were torn. They fell to the ground, most of them, or floated on the back of the playful Wind. They were all real.

“Do you like your surprise?” Love asked, leaning closer. “I’ve gathered for you every flower to be found on Earth. Believe me, I looked in every place. They’re all here, for your own delight, my dear.”

“Oh!” Jaskier cried, suddenly slipping from his arm. He ran between a sprinkling of bluebells and knelt low to the ground. He picked up another flower that had caught his eye. “I’ve heard of these before! These are … let me see now … _skeleton flowers!_ They look like they were carved out of ice! And there!”

Jaskier leapt further along and plucked another flower, this time one hanging off a low tree. It was stringy and red with little orange balls at the ends. “I’ve seen this pattern embroidered. It was on a countess’ dress at a party a long time ago. I thought it was just a made- up pattern, but here it is! And these little bits, they were bells. What _is_ it?”

Love was by his side again to answer. “That is a firewheel tree,” he said.

Jaskier twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. “Oh,” he sighed, mesmerized. Then, he was off again, dashing toward some new fascination, crying to himself, “Oh! Oh, look there!” to Love’s immense gratification.

Then he stopped, squatting over some purplish monstrosity. “And this,” he asked dubiously. “What is this? It’s not exactly a _pretty_ flower by any measure. Nor are they.” He gestured to the surrounding patch of unusual plants. They weren’t flowers in the traditional sense. They weren’t fragrant either.

“Ah, but it is an _essential_ flower, as are the rest. From them come lettuce, tomatoes; that is the cowslip and cauliflower. They are each useful and beautiful in their ways. Does this not please you?”

“Learning something new pleases me, and the rest”—he gestured to the endless expanse of spring—“is more than enough.”

“I am glad!” Love said, and there came a clap of joy. “I’ll be making an early start of it so that I may return before supper, but I hope that I may find you still among them when I return this evening. It suits you to be here. How very picturesque.”

“Off with you,” Jaskier mumbled.

Love merely chuckled. “I leave you to your romp.”

He was gone again and it was only Jaskier and the flowers.

Jaskier was alone in the open field. He turned to look all around him to be sure. Though he’d met nobody but Love and the Wind yet, he would make absolute certain he was by himself before giving any thought away. But there was no one around.

Jaskier girdled the sheet and ran.

His boots crashed to the dirt, heedlessly mangling countless flowers beneath them as he went. He had to find the boundary of this place. The field was not endless. He could see more world beyond, with tall trees and pasture, mountain and wilderness on the far horizon. This field looked out to it from a hill or a plateau. He knew he was somewhere high, looking down.

He squawked and came to an abrupt halt, falling back on his posterior hastily. He’d found the edge, and found it nearly too late. Oh, how high he _was!_ The earth was far below, and he could see no root connecting the land on which he sat to the one beneath. As he leaned further over, he felt the whistle of the Wind. It blew all around as if on a high mountaintop, whipping his hair back and catching his sheet. He shuffled from the endless drop and took several steadying breaths.

“Well. There’s the boundary.”

He continued to spend the better part of an hour following the edge of the property to no avail. There was no way down. It offered him a nice perspective of the house and grounds, but apart from that, he found nothing of use. The architecture was strange and did not seem to match the room given him. There were white marble arches and pillars on the outside. The house was very open. The roof of one part looked a bit like a solid white book upturned and left to lay open. There were terraces and balconies with matching pillars, and everywhere was covered in climbing vines, ivy, and flowers.

Jaskier contemplated tearing all the vines and climbing roses down and fashioning a sort of rope from them. It was a good sort of idea, until he looked over the edge again and saw the drop. He eyed the house and its net of green. It was a big house, but not big enough to reasonably supply the length of vine he needed to reach the far away world.

He sighed and sat in the grass among the flowers. Absently, he plucked the blades one by one and tossed them to the side. Then he plucked a few flowers, meandering, sulking as he tried to think of more clever plans. A large kite? An enormous paper lantern? But where would he find materials light enough? And for a lantern so large, there’d need to be a fire equally as large, and all that wood would be impossibly heavy. The rope was out. Maybe he could bribe the Wind somehow to let him go. What did Wind like? It had no need for food or earthly pleasures.

He spotted a patch of white-headed dandelions peeking out among a lot of clover. He picked one and smiled. Maybe the Wind might like to play with the little seeds. He blew them all into the air and watched them fly. They danced in the sky in every direction, but this wind seemed of a more natural sort than the one that had carried him here.

Jaskier lay back in the dandelion patch, causing a swarm of white seeds to scatter like snow. He plucked another and contemplated it. “Your seeds fly everywhere in the world. I’ve never been to a place without dandelions, so I know it’s true. Maybe you can find the wolf and tell him where I am.” He was still afraid to speak freely. “If only destiny were so kind.”

He blew the seeds sorrowfully, watched them fall far away, then tossed the half-blown stem over the edge. He thought about the bonds of destiny. Geralt was bound to Cirilla by destiny. He was likewise bound to Yennefer. Was Jaskier bound to him at all, or were their meetings a flimsy whim of serendipity?

He rolled over and tucked his head in his arms. “I’m a fool,” he mumbled. Geralt had made things perfectly clear. Why should he go searching for someone who brought him nothing but trouble? Yet he knew they were words of anger. He knew he was the closest thing convenient upon which to shed his frustrations. He’d argued the point on the road down. He made such a convincing argument, he half made himself believe Geralt would come chasing after him to take it back. But he never had.

“But it’s not like he’d leave me to die or ignore me in a spot of trouble.”

At the very least he’d step in to fix things and then be off. Geralt was honourable that way. He had a heroic heart. Jaskier had learned that time and again when he did his best to break a curse rather than kill an innocent, or when he undercharged villagers. Gruff bastard. He was hiding a heart of gold. Maybe that was the reason for the color of his eyes. They were the windows to the soul, after all. And what a soul.

He had to admit, he’d been lonely since they parted. The horror of it was, he hadn’t even slept with anyone since. A good fuck in some brothel was just the recipe for this sort of hangover, and he’d be trotting happily onto his next great love affair after. But no. No, _this_ was the one his heart decided to cling to. This great unwinnable idiot was the one that had to tear his heart from his chest and keep it, giving nothing back. And he had to go and let him.

If he had not already given his heart away, he might actually enjoy his current attentions. How fantastic to be loved by Love himself, spirit, god, or whatever he was. How perfectly thrilling to find himself in this lavish place, his every whim catered to. If Love was not frighteningly jealous, and if he was not put out for being made to wait over twenty years for their engagement to be amended, that is. Not that he’d have stayed at home if he’d known. There was so much world he had to see on his own.

Jaskier stood up resolutely. Now was not the time for What Ifs and Maybes. Things were the way they were, and they would not be changing. He conceived upon a new idea to try tossing letters down below in the hopes of someone coming along to find them. It was the best he could think of for the moment. He allowed himself another twenty minutes of brooding and plucking flowers before he went inside to dress and receive his breakfast. His stomach gnawed at him now, and he doubted it would do him harm. Love had promised him, his song like a contract. He had come to take away his pain. There was nothing here to hurt him.

Nothing but Love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song's coming sooooooon. Get HYPED. It's sad as FUCK!


	6. Sign of Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5095

“What is this?”

A bundle of flowers floated off the little table and hung in the air, turning over.

“Oh, you may have that,” Jaskier said, acknowledging Love’s quiet entrance.

The bundle was a little withered now and he’d forgotten about it in the course of the day. He’d spent most of his time out among the flowers, picking the ones he found unfamiliar. He’d planned to ask about them later, but he thought the better of it, remembering how pleased it had made his host before. He’d rather not encourage him. Instead, he’d wondered aloud whether he might find a book about flowers, and one dropped into his lap from thin air. He’d summoned many books afterward, both to test this new surprising function of the house’s magic, and to have something with which to fill his afternoon.

“Gifts from Spring,” Love sighed.

“It shouldn’t come as a surprise to me that you’re a romantic, but I didn’t imagine you’d be poetic.” Jaskier snickered. He turned the page over, no longer reading, but glancing at the pictures. After some time he grew tired of reading every possible interpretation of flowers and their contradictions. “Gifts from Spring,” he mumbled.

Love paid no mind. “You may offer only small treasures now, but that is not so unusual. After all, the season is only just turning; you are not in all your glory. Still dressing for winter, I see.”

Jaskier had traded his sheet for some more sensible attire. He wore a dark blue cloak trimmed with fur, wrapping it around himself more like a snug blanket than a true cape. He was in a light blue shirt, sleeves rolled up, tucked in high black leather trousers—no jacket. There was nobody he wished to impress here apart from himself, and he didn’t plan on going out in the fields again. He was content to lounge around reading for the moment. The cart had returned with a selection of pastries a few hours after lunch to provide his books with a sweet companion. All together with the warm fire and cloak, he was feeling quite comfortable. Now and then he petted the fur collar of the cloak. Wolf’s pelt.

“My glory. You must _really_ want me in that doublet. But I said I wouldn’t wear it until spring came.”

“A silly technicality. Though one might argue that Spring is in every room where you reside.”

Jaskier closed his eyes and stretched like a lazy cat. “Because I brighten up the room and smell _oh_ -so- daisy fresh?” he asked.

“Because you _are_ Spring, my dear.”

Jaskier froze mid-flex. He inclined his head to look at Love—fruitless effort, that—and gaped. “Come again?”

“You are _Spring_ , Julian.” He plucked the book from Jaskier’s outstretched hand, closed it, and set it aside. “Or you are one of many Springs, for they come and go so often and are reborn, and there are many Springs in many countries, each of them their own. But you are the greatest, the most shining of them all, and I have waited so long for you.”

“I had my doubts before, but now I fear I’m _truly_ in danger, because what you’re spouting now is mad nonsense. I was born to humans. I’m human. And I _know_ that beyond all doubt, because I spent a great deal of my time travelling on and off with a witcher, and they have these magic-detecting medallions, you see. If I’d been anything magical it would’ve buzzed like a shaken hive of bees.”

“You are not in your glory,” Love repeated. “You have indeed been mortal these years past, but that will change soon enough. You will begin to come into your own in time. You are home now, and you will fulfill your role in due course. When we are wed, we will go down among the people together: I, spreading love, and you, the spring.”

Jaskier found himself pulled to his feet and held in a tight embrace. Then, he was twirling, dancing in Love’s arms.

Love laughed as he took him around the room. “I have loved your work for so long, you know. From afar I admired it, and when I saw you, I knew I had to have you. What a wonder for Love to fall!”

Jaskier was dizzy with no face to keep him steady. Through Love, he saw the room spin. He had no spot to return to and regain his balance.

“Of course, you were different when I saw you first. That was another Spring. And I had to wait, for she was already out of reach, married to _Death_ of all things,” he spat. His grip tightened. “Tasteless, withering Death. What he could possibly offer something so _alive_ I’ll never guess. But _I_ knew about life and of love. So I waited. I would have no other, for she was the only one suited, and I would not settle for less.”

“But you say you want me,” Jaskier said. “And I am _not_ a person anyone _settles_ for.”

He felt something warm against his cheek. “Yes. I _do_ want you. I wanted you then and now. Because I was patient, because I waited until the old gods died and were remade, it has come to pass. What a miracle of man, remaking their gods over and over! Spring returned to the land the very day you were born, and I knew you’d arrived. You have that same nature. I knew you right away.”

“For goodness’ sake, let me go,” Jaskier said, freeing up a hand to shove him away. He toddled backwards against the wall and tried to steady himself. “My head is spinning from going round and round, and from trying to follow your story, though the former is the true challenge here if I’m to be entirely honest. Dancing with you is impossible. Really, how can one dance with a partner he can’t see? I might tread on your feet and I wouldn’t know where to put my hands—and forget knowing where I’m meant to look when you speak.”

“That will come in time as well,” he assured.

Jaskier stopped cradling his head a moment to throw a skeptical glance in his general direction.

“Truly. Love comes in many forms. In time, I will come in the form that pleases you best. Think of it as a gift to you. Did you not wonder about my voice? I’m sure you’ve read many accounts of Love as a woman, yet here I stand. I’ve been made male, as in older days.”

“Well, there’s one question answered: I always did wonder which I liked better. Too many qualities to choose from between men and women.”

“Of course, should your preferences ever change …”

“I get the idea,” Jaskier replied. “Oh very, very weird, definitely a weird topic. You don’t give a man much room to digest things before you set another heaping plate in front of him, do you. _Whoo_ —alright! So Spring and Death and la- di- dah. I feel I should take notes.”

“Shall I fetch a notebook?”

Jaskier waved him off. “A glass of wine would do better.” One appeared in his hand and he sighed, rolling his eyes up so that his head fell back. “Not what I really meant, but appreciated.” He returned to his nest of books and sat in it, drinking his wine with a slightly sarcastic demeanor.

The cloak wrinkled beside him. “Have dinner with me. We can discuss things further, if need be. I’m a veritable fountain of knowledge on the subject.”

“Will you starve me if I refuse?” Jaskier tested.

“I’m not a brute. Do you think I’d send you to bed without any supper like a disobedient child?”

“Ah, crust and water then!”

“Don’t make fun.”

Jaskier swirled his wine glass, admiring its color in the firelight. “If we were to have dinner, I expect we’d be dressing up. It _is_ the more formal evening meal.”

“If you like,” Love replied.

“I should dress my best then.”

“Naturally.”

Jaskier leaned toward the warmth at his side, teasing. “Then I’ll ask you to return my doublet. The shirt and trousers too. All of it. In exchange, I’ll dress up and join you. They’re my best things.”

Love pulled away. In an instant, the wardrobe doors were open. “But look at the fine things you have here, Julian. Much finer than those tatters you wore when you travelled here.”

“Yes, but I said I would dress in _my_ best, and those are not mine.”

Silence stretched between them.

The wardrobe closed.

“Fine,” Love conceded. “You may have them, but you will not object if they are made new?”

Jaskier did not trust them to be his own if he were to be presented with something remade. “I will have them exactly as they were. I take pride in my battle scars, and that means rips, tears, and stains.” He set his glass down and reached out a hand.

His clothes appeared from nowhere, draped on his arm.

“There. But I still say you were made for better things. They aren’t worthy of you.”

Jaskier buried his nose in his doublet, hugging it. He saw familiar stitches in the lining, smelled the faint scent of old lavender oil that remained after washing. It was entirely possible they were some excellent copy, but he would allow himself to be easily fooled on this point. It was such a small reminder of home, he was glad for it, real or not.

“Will you have a bath then?” Love asked.

The clawed tub appeared again, walking through a door which opened from the empty bit of wall beside the fireplace. It stopped before the window and filled from the bottom up with hot water. Footsteps echoed as Love approached it. The stool returned along with its many brushes, sponges, soaps, and scents.

“I think, perhaps, hyacinths.”

A vial rose and dropped a thin trail of scent into the water. Blue petals floated up to the surface invitingly. The steam warmed the room, and the room was filled with the smell. Jaskier was comfortable in his clothes and loathe to change them again so soon—a habit born on the road which made him gasp in horror to first realize. He was still fresh from his last bath; the smell of orange blossom still clung to his hair. But he loved a bath and was never a man to refuse one.

“Will we be dining here?” Jaskier asked. He set his old clothes on the arm of the chair as he crossed the room.

“I thought we might go to the dining hall for a proper meal.”

“So there _is_ more to this house. I hadn’t gotten anywhere last night. I was nearly sure the rest of it was a glamour. I still hold to my first theory that you’re one of the Fair Folk; more believable than this ‘Love and Spring’ hogwash.”

“Believe what you will; you’ll know the truth in time. As to that, I simply didn’t want you getting lost and working yourself into a fright. So the house rerouted you.”

 _Sure, let’s pretend that was the reason_ , Jaskier thought. He clutched the hem of his shirt collar and tugged it over his head. He did not remove it from his arms, but held it there in front of his chest. He turned to look over his shoulder.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll see you in an _hour_ , then?”

A sigh.

“In an hour,” Love replied.

Then his presence faded.

Jaskier continued to strip, pleased with himself to note the annoyance in Love’s tone. Once more, he dropped over the side of the tub, his feet crossed, resting on the edge. He felt a bit silly, but one couldn’t be too careful. It was possible that his boots had been removed and exchanged for another pair while he slept, just as his clothes might, but he figured as long as he had no proof of such subterfuge, he may as well continue all the same. And he needed to have silly, improbable hopes.

One more so than any other.

* * *

The job had paid well, but Geralt collected his coin alone. It was alone that he took himself to the stable to visit Roach, and it was alone that he washed himself with cloth and bucket, sitting on a stool beside some villager’s barn. His own calloused fingers ran through his hair, rubbing away refuse and rot from his battle. He could have paid for a bath, but that was an expensive luxury, and not one for which he was willing to pay. He was too practical. It wouldn’t be the same.

“Damn him,” Geralt mumbled. Jaskier had invaded even the simplest of chores with his memory, and there was nothing that would not serve as some wrenching reminder.

Roach lifted her head from where she’d been cropping at a bit of grass. She had perked up in his absence, having had a good rest. It made his heart lighter to see her so refreshed.

“Shall we continue toward the coast?” he asked. He intended to check the town tonight for any place that might be housing travellers. He would check the farms. If they did not find Jaskier by morning, they’d move on. Jaskier was the type to see things through, even when they didn’t go his way. If he really meant to go to the coast, he’d be there, even without anything to carry him down the path. Luteless, cold, with no supplies, he’d find a way. It was the more admirable side to his stubbornness. He was nothing if not persistent. Why else would he follow Geralt on the path for twenty long years?

Geralt let the thoughts stop there before they could spiral as they were wont to do. He would not dwell on twenty years thrown away with a single action. Today, he took the steps to getting them back. Even for an hour. If they had a minute together at the end of it, that would be enough. Just a minute to say what needed saying, and to face every possibility that might come after. If the end result was something unbearable, there was a grim pleasure in knowing he would not have to bear it for long. The winter stretched on, travelling through the land with renewed vigor.

He longed for Kaer Morhen. When this was all over, he’d return there for his final days. When the stores ran empty and the world fell on its swords, he’d be in the last friendly company he knew. Winters home in the wolf den were the closest thing a witcher knew to peace. There, he’d wait for the unthawing world to end.

Geralt chuckled. Jaskier had come to Kaer Morhen many times, ready to strike out for another year of adventures, almost always on the first day of spring. He almost seemed to bring spring itself to the mountain keep. But then, spring was always slowest to come to the mountains. Jaskier would’ve had to wait for the path ahead him to thaw before reaching Kaer Morhen. Once winter came, it was impossible to travel to and from. Naturally he could not come until the thaw. But a part of Geralt hoped at the end of every winter that Jaskier came each time in haste to see him, that he could not wait until spring. He would take the climb at the first opening to see his friend. And even when they parted ways, wherever he was, Jaskier would find him soon enough.

Geralt dried himself and dressed. It was his turn, now, to seek out Jaskier.

When morning came, Geralt replenished his supplies and headed out. Things were not so dire yet for people to refuse his coin, and these people believed the ghouls to be responsible for the blight, at least in part. With them gone, the people would be at ease awhile. He allowed himself to be charged a little more than the supplies were worth—people were still _people_ and the feelings toward witchers persisted, despite Jaskier’s best efforts—but he accepted it knowing the truth he knew of the blight. He hoped Yennefer and the council would have news when next they met.

He prepared Roach’s saddle and gathered his things. It took a bit of rearranging to get Jaskier’s bag comfortably situated. Thankfully neither of them carried much, or he’d worry about overburdening his steed. Despite this, he spent much of the day walking beside Roach on the road. By noon, he had a new appreciation for all the walking Jaskier did to keep up.

It might not be entirely comparable, but Jaskier’s lute was nearly as heavy as his two swords together. In its travelling case, of course. That thing was monstrously bulky. He tried to find a way to attach it to the saddle bags that would be balanced and steady, without hanging awkwardly off the side, and he’d found it necessary to give up and just carry it strapped over his back. It made walking a task as he adjusted it and tried to keep the case from bumping the back of his legs. The strap was uncomfortable and dug into his neck, or if he shifted it, the weight all sat on one shoulder and made it sore. He never had such trouble with his swords. Knowing Jaskier, he probably pissed off the wrong person and got a small curse put on his case. It seemed the only logical way to explain the _obnoxious_ discomfort that continued whatever way he tried to carry it. Eventually he settled for keeping it at his hip, switching sides when it got sore.

By the time evening came, his shoulders were stiff and no amount of rolling could relieve the ache. He rubbed them as he switched. He was beginning to understand Jaskier’s habit of complaining. A lute was a fucking burden. Especially uphill. He had to account for the bulk when he balanced on a slope. It changed his center of gravity significantly—and gods forbid the thing should slip or sway to the side. He nearly stumbled once that way.

He was looking forward to reaching the top of the hill and finally stopping for the evening. The hill had been his landmark for nearly two hours, and he was looking forward to swinging the damn strap over his head and dumping the lute in the grass. He already had a hand on it now, nearing the last steps. When his head reached over the apex, he bent it down and triumphantly raised the strap up and over with a glad grunt.

Then he saw the valley.

The last hour was upon them now, its golden light glowing over everything it touched. Geralt unconsciously clutched the case against his chest as he stared, frozen in place, and the light seemed to touch even his heart, buried beneath his sturdy leather armour. Vibrant grass swayed in the gentle breeze. The spruce that dotted the landscape gave way here to let the valley flourish. In spring, this place would be filled with wildflowers of every color. He had seen such landscapes before and taken the pleasure of stopping to rest before them many times. They’d been missing on his journey, all of them barren of anything but dried- up grass and withered brush. But the grass here was lush, and in the compact valley, hidden away, was a patch of thousands upon thousands of yellow dandelions.

“Jaskier,” he breathed. They were his namesake: one of many. And here they were, popping up just as impossibly as Jaskier himself did. In the midst of a crisis, they appeared, their golden petals swaying joyously, freely, _unconquerably_ in the light. He turned away, sure his eyes were playing tricks. Behind him and all around, the land was barren, but he turned back and the dandelions remained, a glorious beacon of life in the desert.

Roach moved first. She trotted past him and bent her head down to sniff the dandelions, taking bites here and there until she found the tastiest patch and staked out a comfortable position in which to have her supper.

Geralt sat. Just off the road, in a cool bit of grass, he rested to look in silence at the scene. Here, in this place, things were flowering. Had the council found a way to absolve the curse? Was this the first sign of spring? But as he’d looked from the top of the hill, as he’d turned all around, he’d seen nothing else for miles. This valley was isolated in its growth.

His throat seized. For some reason, without explanation, the dandelions were there, just as if they’d been waiting for him. He was not a great believer of destiny, but something welled up in his chest at the sight. It was childish. It was idiotic. To think the sight of a simple weed would affect him this way, just because it shared the name of his friend. He told himself it was nothing but a weed, even as he knelt and removed his glove to pluck one, running his thumb over the head of a blossom as one might the soft cheek of a lover to remove a tear.

He closed his eyes and embraced the lute case. Roach was too far away and he needed something. He buried his nose against the worn leather, hiding from the world. Through the crack of the opening, he could smell chalk and rosehips.

Geralt set the case down and opened it. There was Jaskier’s lute. It shone gold in the light, as if it were made from the substance, but that was not where its value lay. Geralt opened a compartment under the neck. Dry rosehips and petals sat in a little bundle of muslin beside another small bundle that leaked white powder. It was chalk.

During longer performances, Jaskier rubbed his hands with chalk to keep them from sweating and slipping while he played. The rosehips improved the smell, he claimed, but Geralt could still smell the chalk whenever he returned to their table for a drink. He often left white fingerprints on the table where his idle hands drummed, already planning out the next set of songs to play after his break.

Geralt touched the chalk, rubbing it between his fingers. He plucked a string, and the sound plucked another in his heart. He dug under the neck and body of the lute carefully to lift it from the case, but the movement jerked the lid. Something plunked against the casing, falling from a pocket in the lid. Geralt slipped it out and found it was Jaskier’s notebook.

Geralt opened its pages. Jaskier often asked his opinion while he wrote, experimenting with phrases and rhymes, but he never offered Geralt a look at his notebook, and likewise, Geralt never asked. But he looked now.

The notebook was a messy collection of seemingly every thought that ran through Jaskier’s head. On one page were many dry samples of oil he’d rubbed into the paper and marked. Geralt scratched at each and was greeted with a dozen familiar scents from over the years. Lavender and orange blossom appeared multiple times as if Jaskier could not quite agree which he liked better. He kept a log of where he’d purchased the oils: a reminder in case he ever did make up his mind and needed more. There were flowers, too, pressed and used to bookmark different passages. Geralt found scribblings of lyrics to ‘The Lion Cub of Cintra.’ On the pages that followed, he was surprised to find notes about Cirilla. There were diary entries of his visits to the castle and performances Geralt had not accompanied him on, nor known of. He found petals, sweet wrappers, a ribbon and patch of velvet: treasures and tokens from Ciri.

_“She asked today about the Banquet again, and asked me to sing for her,”_ Jaskier wrote. _“She’s curious. She knows Geralt as an epic hero, but I’ve not told her the ending of the ballad. I’ve kept it for myself. She does not know she was born Surprise. Her Highness has warned me against speaking of it, and I would not wish it to be known that Geralt has a claim to her. It is not quite abandonment in the classical sense, but there are those who would shame him—whether he took her on the Path or not. It’s an unwinnable situation. But how winning she’s become! She’s won my heart already, the dear thing. If I might convince Geralt to visit, even once, she’d win him in an instant. Then I should see her always, for he’d never leave her here, having seen her. I think I should like to stay the summer and coach her singing, once she’s a little older. She has the loveliest voice, but she’s not one to sit still. It’s the age, I think.”_

There was a bit of parchment tucked in the entry, folded in four. Geralt opened it. It was a small child’s drawing: a creature with sticks poking every which way and unintelligible scratching. A ball? A dog? There was something that looked like a feather on one spot, and something like a spoon beneath it. The clearest thing he could manage to decipher was the signature at the bottom:

CIRI & YASKEER

COME BACK SOON & SING

Geralt chuckled. There was another note on the page where Jaskier considered changing the spelling of his name to please the princess and spare Her Grace the embarrassment of being corrected.

_“It would be a terrible burden, for I dearly love my name and spent days languishing over which I ought to use, but for that effort, it is all the more noble for me to follow through for the princess’ sake,”_ he wrote. _“How inconsolable she would become if she knew she spelled it wrong, for her writing lessons are her greatest abhorrence. How deeply it grieves me to know—I feel a pain in my very soul! But perhaps I may teach her to love the written word yet. And, more importantly, improve her crooked little ‘_ _&_ _’s. Although, they_ are _charming.”_

He turned the page, skimming through innumerable songs sung and scrapped. Jaskier scratched over whole pages if they didn’t work. There were torn pages as well, as was evident by the scraps remaining stuck in the binding. One could tell a lot about his state of mind by looking at the way he took notes.

Then, he found a page with a brown thumbprint. Old blood. He read the beginnings of the entry, in which Jaskier wrote about the djinn. _What, did he stop to write about it the minute he was healed?_ Geralt thought. But that would be like him. Putting down all the details before he forgot. Guiltily, he made to turn the page when he caught sight of his own name further down.

With a shaking hand, Jaskier recounted something Geralt had not known he’d seen. Three lines alone were spent in describing the broken window through which Jaskier had witnessed their coupling. What surprised him was that Jaskier used Yennefer’s name. He would not have known it then if the passage had been written at the time of the event. But his hand was shaking so that the writing was uneven, just as one might shake after a near-death experience. Then he saw the water marks on the page.

He’d been crying.

The next page detailed a new song.

As Geralt turned over page after page, he found more scattered entries with notes on the same subject. References to purple eyes, to a woman, and angry words: words of heartache. Each of them was marked with a folded down corner. _“Lovely garrotter”_ and _“gorgeous garrotter”_ and more variations of the phrase were written and scratched out.

Garrotter. Seeing that word so emphasized beside the rest of it gave him a strange sensation. He lifted the lute out of its case and set the book down, its pages open to a scrawled bit of musical notation. It took a few tries to get it, but Geralt found the strings and frets that sounded right. Jaskier had tried to teach him a bit, but it had been long ago and he hadn’t paid much attention. He’d been too distracted by Jaskier’s hands repositioning his grip on a chord.

The lute sang an anxious melody. There were no notes for how the words should be sung—only the melody of the lute underneath. He set a flat hand against the strings. He’d heard enough. He quickly packed everything back where it belonged in the case and snapped it shut. He was not sure he wanted to know how it was sung after all.

Geralt looked out over the dandelions. The sensation—this strange feeling tugged at him. He wanted to do something, but he knew not what it was. It felt like the need to run, or the need to be working on something. But there was an undercurrent to it like Jaskier’s songs. It came to his throat. His vocal cords flexed just as they would while he’d practiced his apology, thinking of words with care. He needed words. That was the feeling.

He was never very good with words. But even a fool can say what he feels, even if it did not make a song. The dandelions bowed in the breeze and reminded him of the ugly grey world that existed outside this small valley. They entreated him to speak. He felt his words could be safely swallowed up here, his clumsy confessions buried.

“The world is lacking yellow,” he said. That was exactly how he’d describe it since Jaskier left. “Because I’ve lost him. I’ve gone and lost him, haven’t I?”

But he would seek him out, even if it took him to every coast on the Continent. This place was a sign of hope. He closed his eyes as the gentle breeze brushed against his face. Then, he jumped to his feet. There was something …

He hopped into the field of dandelions, inhaling the scent. He followed it, his skin turning to gooseflesh. The scent was weak, fading, but …

There!

Geralt dropped to his knees. He picked up a wilting stem. It had already been plucked from the earth somewhere, now dropped in place. A white-tufted dandelion among a field of gold, half-blown of its seeds. And it smelled of Jaskier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems Jaskier unintentionally sent a better gift down into the valley than the scraps he tossed at Love. Shout out to those of you who I see in the comments picking up on what's happening. We're getting very close to the song now. There are two lines somewhere in here which are taken from the lyrics. Geralt has begun writing.
> 
> I hope you can kinda see the perspective change is also a bit out of sync. There's a bit of jumping around time-wise, though not very drastically, and always in the right order. Jaskier's storyline has been a bit more condensed, being only a few days, whereas Geralt's timeline is longer (mostly because of travel). From here on out, they should be happening at the same time and it will be more obvious.


	7. INTERMISSION - TIMELINE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this short intermission to explain the timeline before the story continues.  
> Grab a drink and some popcorn from the lobby, courtesy of our trained staff.  
> Jk, we're in the middle of a modern plague. Nobody's going out to the theatre. Damn Covid-19.
> 
> We'll return to our regularly scheduled programme shortly.

_**BONUS ZOOMS:** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if any of you got excited by a chapter update notification. Please enjoy my scribbles anyway.  
> (Legally, you canNOT be mad at me for this. I posted 5000 words last night.)


	8. The Coast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger warning for struggle in water.
> 
> 6422

One dinner became many. Then, it became routine. Jaskier counted himself lucky that Love did not return again some early morning, but had resigned himself to visits exclusively in the evenings. He would find Jaskier out among the flowers or reading in his room, and they’d spend a half hour in each other’s company, though Jaskier ignored him as best he could, or offered only mild comments, riddled with disinterest. True to his word, he made things as difficult as possible. When their half hour was over, Love called up a bath and disappeared while dinner was made ready, then Jaskier would be alone for an hour of sweet silence, his boots propped up on the porcelain side of the tub. Once refreshed, he would dress and make his way to the dining hall for another hour or two of avoiding conversation, and afterwards an hour of reading in a parlor, before making his withdrawal as early as was polite.

Somehow, he’d become numb to the entire situation.

After the first night, the house had opened itself to him. He could wander as he liked and explore the grounds freely. After a good lie-in, this was how he spent most of his first week. The halls of the outer building were interesting, being open air passages. It seemed his suite and the connecting hall was the only place with its particular design—he guessed the house had arranged itself to a configuration more familiar to the people of his country, if not his own tastes. In the open passage, there was always something growing. Roses climbed many of the columns, or else honeysuckle, sweat peas, and wisteria. These halls were flanked by sunny alcoves, each a little garden themselves. In the alcove gardens there grew many trees, but only one each. They were the focal point of each garden, it seemed.

He found a mossy alcove he liked where a twisty tree grew with low-hanging branches. He would sit beneath it with a pile of books whenever he wished to pretend to be elsewhere, which he found he did often. It grew a round fruit like an apple with the thick rind of an orange. On the bottom, it wore a little crown. He kept a stack of books specifically about plants on the breakfast table so that he could consult them about the more interesting plants he found. One told him this tree was called a pomegranate tree. He thought the spelling looked romantic, but the name was too long for him to bother with. In his head, he called them ‘king fruits’ on account of their little crowns.

He’d plucked one and opened it up to compare the inside to its picture, then read the entry in whole, lest the fruit be poisonous to humans. He doubted Love would plant anything that might bring him harm—that would offer him an easy escape—but it was just as likely the fruit would be sour or bitter if out of season. If seasons existed wherever this place was. The book contained cultural references to the plants as well, and one passage gave him pause beneath the entry for pomegranates. It was a myth from a country he’d never heard of, concerning a young nature goddess and the god of the dead. As he read, he found himself relating frighteningly closely to the tale it told. There was a contract described at the end, in which the woman was bound to the land of the dead by eating of its native fruit, the pomegranate.

Immediately, Jaskier chucked the fruit as far as he could and hurried to wash his hands. He read under an orange tree after that, and he was sure to pick through his salads and fruit trays at every meal, lest he find the little red seeds. He was suspicious of food with sauces, but there was little he could do about those. He hoped they had to be eaten willingly, as in the story.

Jaskier thought frequently about the terms of his captivity. Love had come because he’d called, and he’d called with his song. The first two verses were innocent enough; he didn’t think they could be used against him, but the third is where things got sticky:

_Return my vow and take me, love;_

_Come take away my pain._

_Come wrap me in your arms, my love,_

_That I mayn’t leave again._

“In my defense, I didn’t think anyone would actually _hear_ me,” he complained. Besides, he hadn’t asked Love to take him, but _his_ love. “What good is omniscience—and I have to assume if he _is_ a god, that he must be to some degree—but anyway, what good is it if you can’t tell the damn difference between a capital _L_ and a lowercase?”

But he’d set himself up. _“ ‘That I mayn’t leave again.’_ I’m an idiot. From now on, if I get out of here, there’ll be no more singing at night alone in the woods. He was right when he said that was asking for trouble, but I had to go and make it a habit.”

He sighed. The grass tickled against his cheek comfortingly. It felt nothing like the back of his mother’s hand, but he was reminded of the motion regardless. A branch tapping against his shoulder in the wind felt like the pat of a sympathetic hand. He swore once that he felt something tap his boot when he was hunting for buttercups in the field, then he bent to look and found them hiding under a raspberry bush. After that incident, he began to feel unnerved.

“How are you enjoying the fields?” Love asked.

They were seated on opposite ends of a long table, about to begin their habitual dinner, though Jaskier’s mind remained in the gardens. The table was set up in the ballroom Jaskier had run through on his night of fright. Love had tried once to sit beside him as he sat at one head, but Jaskier called him improper and sent him away to the opposing head directly. Love had made a show of his displeasure by keeping quiet for a whole course, but Jaskier could not be anything other than delighted that he’d chosen to ignore him. It must have shown. Jaskier could swear the table was slowly losing place-settings as the days progressed. He was sure it was getting shorter.

Jaskier set down his fork politely, though his face spoke volumes. He’d _just_ cut his first bite. “There’s plenty to see,” he replied flatly.

“I’m glad. I was worried you’d become bored these last few days. You’ve been quieter.”

“No, I’m perfectly satisfied. I’ve just been so tired after the long days of running around, and I’m thinking of too many things to speak.”

“It’s good to be stimulated, though I must admit, I’m sorry it makes for unstimulating conversation. Is there anything more I can provide? Perhaps something that may excite you? You’ve been too pensive. It’s left me lonely.”

Jaskier would not look a gift horse in the mouth. He leaned back in his chair, considering. “I was headed for the coast before I came here. I haven’t seen the ocean in a long time, and I’ve been longing for it. There are many coastal flowers in the fields and the gardens here, but not a bit of ocean landscape. Could we go for a visit?”

A goblet floated merrily in the air. A bit of the candlelight reflected off it, and he caught a glimpse of a pale hand. That’d happened more frequently in the last few days.

“An excellent idea!” Love cheered. “Tomorrow, we’ll enjoy a day at the coast! Perhaps a sea-side visit will inspire you to sing.”

“I don’t know about that. I have no desire to sing.”

“But _I_ desire it. Won’t you indulge me, just one song?”

Jaskier looked at the empty chair. Then, slowly, deliberately, he loaded his fork with a _large_ cut of potato, and stuffed his mouth. It took several bites to be rid of it.

“What do you imagine the coast is like? Are your shores rocky and full of cliffs, or do you know the sandier beaches?”

Jaskier wiped his mouth with his napkin before he spoke. “I’ve known both,” he said, curtly.

“I much prefer the sandy beaches myself. There are so many things to look for in the sand: seashells, snapper biscuits, sea stars … one might even find mermaid scales or washed-up treasures. A pretty pebble at the very least.”

“Many people go to the coast to find peace,” Jaskier replied.

The conversation died shortly after.

At the end of their meal, Love dismissed him without their quiet hour. “I’ll be busy tonight preparing,” he explained. “You may stay up and enjoy your reading if you like, but I will not be joining you. I will fetch you tomorrow early for our outing.”

Jaskier returned to his room, buzzing with anticipation. If they went out to the sea, there would be a chance for escape. He changed for bed, folding his clothes and leaving them on a chest by the footboard. In the morning, they always disappeared somewhere, likely to a laundry. As for sleepwear, there were nightgowns of many fashions in the wardrobe to choose from. However, Jaskier had not touched them. He had found a set of soft linen trousers in one of the drawers and he wore these often, sometimes during the day when he lounged beneath his reading trees. But more often than not, he simply wrapped himself in his sheet for the morning hours, or his cloak when he was particularly lonely for home.

He stripped and wrapped himself in the sheet now, jumping into bed with his boots. At least his feet were never cold, but it could be uncomfortable. When his feet became too sore, he’d take them off for a time, but he always clutched them in his arms, and never did he fall asleep with them off, lest he lose his grip.

Despite his best efforts, sleep would not come. Among the bottles of scent that appeared at bath time, he’d found a bit of lavender, and he sprinkled a few drops on his pillow every couple nights to help him sleep. This bottle he kept by his bedside, and it obediently stayed after the tub disappeared. He tried refreshing his pillow with another sprinkling, but this did nothing to help.

He got up and trudged over to the fire. He lay on his cloak and watched the flames dance, hoping it would hypnotize him into sleep. He stroked the fur lining; he liked to lay the cloak with the lining up for this purpose. It was soft and warm, but he was plagued by the scent of lavender, and now it seemed too fresh and sweet to serve its original purpose. It was keeping him awake. Much as he loved smelling sweet and floral himself, he longed for familiar smells of comfort: pine and smoke, cured oak, salt and sandalwood—things that did not flower. He looked up into the empty air, wondering if he might not make his wish known. He sat up on his elbows.

“If it isn’t too much trouble, might I have a small sampling of new oils? Something earthier, more masculine.”

He was genuinely polite to the house itself, the way he was polite to the plants or the tub. It was an odd practice. Even on earth, he would apologize to a table if he bumped up against it, or to a chair knocked over on its side accidentally. But in this instance, he was conscious, determined to be as mindful as possible where magic was concerned.

A drawer clicked out of his dresser which had not been there previously. Jaskier stood and trotted over in his sheet. He opened it further and looked inside. Within were many slim bottles of oil and perfume, lined up on an angled rack.

He opened one that smelled remarkably like old books. He capped it and opened another. This smelled of anise, and the one beside like nutmeg. Another had a more musky smell. Then, there was leather, amber, that tingled in his nose.

Jaskier tested the musk and leather on the back of his hand, mixing them together. He made a strangled noise as the scent emerged. Without another thought, he took the two bottles and dropped on his knees by the cloak. He sprinkled the scents together on the cloak, capped them, and rubbed the cloth together. He buried his nose in it and let out a shuddering breath. His eyes were closed tight against the world, his hands fisted in the cloak. He tried to pretend he was home in some inn on the road, in a small bed with a warm back pressed against his forehead. How like a child, taking comfort in the smell of his own bed after returning from a long journey. How like an animal.

He inhaled again and tears pricked at his eyes. It smelled like Geralt.

All at once, realization came crashing down upon him. He’d been in a state of shock until then, and the reality of his situation finally set in. He was alone in an unreachable place where nobody knew to find him. Nobody would even know he was missing. If Geralt _did_ miss him, it’d be weeks, even months before he began searching for him, and he might quickly give up, thinking Jaskier was done with him, upset and in hiding after being driven away. He was trapped. And that truth broke him.

He sobbed quietly into the cloak, fisting it in his hands, trying to find something solid to hang onto. He cried until he could no longer smell the oils and there was too much pressure in his nose to go on. He cried until his eyes were raw from rubbing and his mouth as dry. Then he lay in silence, breathing, his face hidden in the cloak.

Jaskier lay like that a long time. The fire was smaller when he finally emerged. He stood, feeling sore after staying so long on the ground. He gathered the two bottles and returned them to the drawer, then he tucked himself back into the bed. He arranged spare pillows vertically at his side and covered them over with the cloak. Settled at last, he clung close to it, his nose buried in the ticklish fur. _There has to be a chance,_ he told himself. Tomorrow they’d be at the coast. And something had always brought him and Geralt together in the end. He had to believe it would again, or there was no point. _It was only a moment of weakness,_ he thought. He could give into despair for a while. He would be strong again afterwards. He always was. He reminded himself that tomorrow was a chance, and there surely be many chances afterwards, and he tried to laugh and call himself silly for ever thinking there wouldn’t be. It worked. A little.

He fell asleep, dreaming of kind gold eyes.

A salty wet breeze blew over Jaskier’s pillow. He heard the sound of laughter, of play. Several splashes and childish shrieks of delight wafted through the windows. He smelled the sea, heard waves breaking on the shore. There were new voices not belonging to the isolated place where he woke each day. So Jaskier did not open his eyes. He was dreaming still, surely, now about the seaside he was promised, for certainly nobody else could be here. As the sounds of the dream carried on without him, he wondered if he’d find a ship at the dock to take him home. Then, he heard a voice call his name from far away.

Something crashed beside him on the bed and Jaskier jumped upright in alarm, his heart pounding. He patted at the blankets wildly, looked round with wide, bleary eyes.

“Get it, Geralt! Fuck! Ger—I’m unarmed _, I’M UNARMED!”_ he screeched as he tumbled over the edge of the bed. He lay gasping, his lower body wrapped up in his sheet inescapably. “Ah, fuck,” he panted, horrifically wake. “Fuck, I think I’ve had a heart attack.”

“Upon my word, are you alright?”

Love leaned over the side of the bed. When Jaskier looked to glare at him, he was shocked to discover that he knew exactly where to look. He screamed and kicked straight up into a very vague and forgettable—but very _visible_ —face.

“Fucking—! Jesus, Joh, and _Jupiter!_ ” the thing bellowed. It rubbed its face and groaned.

Jaskier scrambled backward, dragging the sheet as he tried to free himself. “Get back!” he shouted, tossing a pillow. The thing might as well not have had a face at all. As soon as he looked away, he forgot what he’d seen of it, or if he tried to look too closely, he saw only a blur, like something with a face of clay. He’d seen such things in nightmares before, but this thing was real and it called his name.

“Julian, it’s—” a book smacked the faceless thing where a nose ought to be.

“Back!” Jaskier barked. He made it to his feet and leapt over the low table toward the fireplace. He made a grab for the poker as his sheet slipped free, then he grabbed the sheet as quickly. He turned back to the monster crawling out of his bed and raised—the coal shovel. He brandished it bravely. Heavy iron was heavy iron, and he had a good right arm.

“Enough!” Love bellowed. He rushed upon Jaskier and gripped the shovel, eyes glaring, _glowing_ , with that same frightening attention Jaskier had seen his first evening. This time, he saw their color. Orange.

Jaskier twitched back and Love tore the shovel from his hand.

“Let’s calm down, shall we?” Love took a deep breath and smoothed his hair back. Did he have hair? For a moment, Jaskier thought he must, but it was the implication of the movement more than anything. The thing— _Love_ , he realized—was really quite vague. Somehow, he was vaguer than he had been when he’d been completely insubstantial.

“Forgive me,” Love apologized. “I thought you’d heard me calling.”

Jaskier patted his sheet until he could focus long enough to get it tucked securely around his hips. He was sweating cold now, his heart climbing down from the race. He shook his head, still breathless.

“I’ve frightened you.”

Jaskier nodded, thumbs still hooked in the hem of the sheet as he tried to calm himself. He raised a hand to his chest and leaned over dramatically. “You don’t say! Great gods above, what were you _thinking_ jumping next to me like that? Were you trying to kill me?”

“I meant only to surprise you. And the gods aren’t above; they’re sort of _around_. We share the plane, even if we’ve been scattered awhile now. Those of us left, anyway.” He leaned over to set the shovel against its rack again. “There aren’t many cults left that support the old gods. That’s what they’re called now, last I checked—cults.”

“You!” Jaskier jabbed at him with an annoyed finger. “Stay on topic! What was all that about?”

“I told you I would see you up early today. And courtship should have surprises,” Love answered, matter-of-factly.

“Yes. A suitor _should_ surprise their quarry. With flowers and notes and little tokens of affection—not a _cannon ball_ into their bed! Strictly speaking, you shouldn’t even be able to _enter_ my private chambers in a regular courtship. I should be receiving you in my parlor or great room. Besides, that isn’t exactly a face one hopes to wake up to. Actually, it’s not really a face at all, is it. It’s a … well it’s …”

Jaskier gestured at his own face, circling it with his hand. “What’s—this whole mess, just—what’s happening here? What _is_ that?”

“Give it time,” Love said dismissively. “It’ll be a true face soon enough.”

“Can’t you wear a mask or something until then? A hat, maybe. It makes a horrifying surprise. Like mistaking a dress mannequin for a lady in the tailor’s shop before seeing it hasn’t got a face. Or worse: a customer whose jacket you’ve just been rubbing between your fingers who suddenly moves.”

Love chuckled, a hand over his mouth. “I’ll consider a veil,” he said.

“You’re blurry enough to _be_ under one already. It’d only be polite to have a reason for it.”

“My hair will do. It’s decently long at the moment, and I expect it’ll be visible soon. The hair is typically one of the first features a person notices. Do you like braiding hair, is that it?”

Jaskier squinted. He tried very hard to see any kind of features to apply, but his brain couldn’t wrap around the figure. He saw a pale thing in the shape of a man, saw what might’ve been a jacket, might’ve been a vest, _some_ cloth thing with buttons, but it was a shadowy blur. He grunted in frustration and threw up his hands.

“Forget it. You’re _right there_ and I can _see_ you, but I can’t see a thing!”

He leaned against the wardrobe and looked away obstinately. What was the point in looking at something he couldn’t see? Especially when what he _could_ see was nightmare-inducing.

“No more of that. I have something here that I _can_ show you. A gift for today, since you love to dress for the occasion.”

Something reflected light in Jaskier’s eyes. He blinked and held a hand up against the glare. It disappeared as Love lowered it. Jaskier reached out curiously and Love draped a doublet in his hands. It was shining green and blue, covered in iridescent scales. _Mermaid scales_ , he thought. The cold sweat had returned.

“Is it what you wanted?” Love asked. “The Wind told me it remembered carrying something of this description down the side a mountain a month or two past, from your lips. It’d been idle, listening to your song, when you began to talk to yourself about a lovely coastal scene. In fact, it went there right after to play among the ships and sails. It told me you’d painted such a lovely scene that it longed to be there under the warm sun by the sea. It was very useful in helping me conjure up the perfect scene.”

Jaskier looked up. “Conjure?” he echoed. He felt his heart drop into his stomach.

“Come and see.” Love waved him toward the window.

Jaskier followed after, still holding the doublet awkwardly.

The sounds of laughter and waves that had always been present now registered once more. He braced himself with a hand on the window. Past the narrow end of the field in front of them, there was a sandy beach. Waves crashed against it. Water stretched as far as he could see, further than the edge had been. Mermaids were playing in the water, splashing each other, sunning on the shore and laughing, combing out their hair.

“I’ve provided these as well.” Love placed a gorgeous pair of shoes on top of the doublet. They were pale green and covered gold shell patterns, inlayed with mother of pearl. “Flat heel. Can’t have you slipping in the sand.”

Love ran down to the sand and turned around to wave. “Hurry and get dressed! The water awaits!”

For a moment, Jaskier stood transfixed. He touched the mother of pearl with a finger. He’d seen it once on the side of one of his father’s best smoking pipes. Then he saw his boots beneath the doublet.

He dumped the shoes on the floor.

Jaskier dressed himself. He wore the doublet, thinking it would be quite obvious to Love that he wasn’t wearing the shoes, and it would be tactless if he refused both gifts. And it was.

“Where are your shoes?” Love asked as Jaskier climbed down the sandy dune.

“I couldn’t let them get ruined in the sand and the muck,” he lied. “They’re such fine shoes. I’m afraid the rough sand might scuff them.”

“They can be fixed.”

Jaskier raised a leg in the air, emphasizing his boot. “These old boots work much better. Besides, the cuffs are so high the sand can’t get in them. Those fine shoes would be filled with sand in an instant with their low cuffs.”

“But getting your boots wet might ruin them,” Love argued.

“They can be fixed.” Jaskier smiled. “Besides, they’ve been soaked through many times in my travels and they’ve always come out of it alright. They’re rough, tough, and reliable. I don’t mind dirtying them.”

Love stood still as Jaskier sauntered past him.

“So! Mermaids. Or are they nereids? Sirens? No, sirens are bird-like, aren’t they? Or was it fish-like? We’ll have to look it up after dinner tonight.”

“They’re mermaids,” Love replied. He joined Jaskier and walked beside him. “I thought you might like the company while I’m away. I can only stay with you for a little while this morning before work.”

“And what work is it that you do, exactly?” Jaskier had a general sort of idea. He’d read about it in books of mythology he’d called up. But books were written by men. And they were only myths.

“I spread love. I oversee it, nurture it.”

“So you know every person I’ve ever loved then? You’ve had a hand in that.”

A sly hand threaded into his. “No. I knew you would experience all kinds of love because that was what I wished when I claimed you. But I don’t sit with a quiver of magic arrows as some stories might depict me, shooting every individual heart.”

Jaskier breathed a little lighter, hearing that.

“I drop a suggestion of love somewhere and wait for people to happen upon it. Seeds left on a windowsill so some young woman, come to look at the view, begins to dream of her prince charming while staring out the moon, and all of a sudden, he might look very much like the young gentleman who comes to sheer the sheep in the spring. Or a boy playing in a field might pluck a wildflower born of such a seed and begin to pick its petals, and he realizes he’s singing, ‘She likes me, she likes me not; a little bit, now quite a lot!’ and thinking of his apple-cheeked neighbor.”

“Seeds of love,” Jaskier mused.

“Precisely. Do you see why Love and Spring make such a pair? What is Spring but a god’s promise of love to the world? Spring loves everything and provides the means to go on living another year, so that Spring might see everything as long. Love and Spring make life! Is that not a most romantic destiny?”

“My, what a pretty pebble,” Jaskier said, bending to snap it up. He tossed it into the water. It startled the mermaids who dove beneath the surface, leaving the coast silent and empty.

“Julian.”

“Don’t call me that. I hate that name.”

“Then give me the name you prefer.”

Jaskier turned away and climbed up a grassy dune. “Your tricks won’t work,” he called back. “Whether you’re fae or not, I know the rules. I will give you nothing.”

“I’m not a fae.”

“You could be,” Jaskier insisted, doubling down. “It could easily be a lie that fae can’t lie. There are so many stories about them, who’s to say what’s true.”

“I’m not a _fae_ ,” Love continued, “But I meant to say that we follow similar rules. Gods are belief. To a degree, they are restricted to what people believe, including rules made up by humans, if that is what _they_ believe.”

Jaskier crossed his arms, sitting in the sand. “What if I believed with all my might that I could kill you with a glare?” he asked. He was very good at them. If looks could kill, he’d have a head count long as his arm. Though it might not be as effective if he had no eyes to glare into.

“It takes a collective belief.”

“Worth a try.”

Love sighed. “I cannot bind you by taking your name,” he said.

“Then don’t ask me with such suspicious phrasing.”

“Very well. _What_ is your name? What would you like me to call you?”

“You may call me Jaskier,” he replied.

Love was quiet a moment. The waves spilling onto the shore filled the air with a foaming hush. The grasses rustled.

“So that is the name you chose when you left,” Love said. His voice was gentle, carried away by the sea. He chuckled warmly. “The little yellow flower. It suits you.”

“Wildflower. The word does not belong to a single kind of flower either. Buttercup, dandelion … celandine and delphinium. I, like my name, belong to nothing; not even to any one flower. I am everywhere and you’ll never trap me in a garden. I go where I choose, root where I please, though my roots are shallow and I shall not stay long. However, I am stubborn, relentless, and I cannot be removed from the place of my choosing.”

He looked down at Love. “I do not choose this place. Today, I am a dandelion seed. Tomorrow I will fly from here and find my way home.”

“Then my Wind will bring you right back here,” Love replied. “This is the place you were destined to come.”

“Someone once said that destiny is man’s way of making sense of this world—or something to that effect. If that’s my destiny, I think I’ll take a page from his book and turn my back on it. I decided long ago that my destiny lay elsewhere, and I was right. I will not be tied down to any destiny belonging to Julian Alfred Pankratz of Lettenhove. As you said: I am someone new. If your magic could not find me, neither should destiny. I am Jaskier, the bard of the world. I’ll choose my own destiny.”

Love stared at him awhile, Jaskier could feel his eyes even as they kept hidden. Then, Love went away, splashing in the water.

“Come join me,” he said. “It isn’t cold.”

“I’ll stay here, thanks.”

“But the wet sand feels wonderful between your toes.” He sighed, standing with his head thrown back. “I haven’t done this in ages.”

“Then do it twice as hard for me. I’m comfortable where I am.”

“Will you not swim with the mermaids then? I could persuade them to come out. You may flirt with them a little if you like, and I promise not to get jealous. They’re quite heartless, even if they _are_ sweet. I know they shan’t fall for you.”

“I would rather not,” Jaskier replied. He leaned back meaningfully and lay in the soft sand, closing his eyes.

A shadow fell over him. He heard the soft shift as hands fell on either side of his torso.

“Am I so unlovable, Jaskier?”

He did not open his eyes. “My heart isn’t free at the moment.”

“After all your puff about being so free. So to whom does your unwinnable heart belong?”

He answered easily. “The world. I’m Spring, remember? I love all the world and everything in it. I’m afraid my heart is far too full to find any spare room for you.” It was honestly true. He had such great love for the world and all earthly pleasures. If he loved just one thing a little more, who would notice? Well, certainly not the thick-headed object of that attention. He’d remedy that one day if he ever got the chance.

“The sun is getting higher,” Love whispered. He stroked Jaskier’s cheek tenderly. “Will you kiss me before I leave?”

Jaskier grabbed his wrist and pushed it back at him. “No,” he growled.

And the wrist held so tightly in his grip vanished like smoke.

He lay, listening to the waves crashing on the shore. The sun tingled against his cheeks. The wind over the water was chilly, but the sun made it bearable. He waited. Then he sat up. The mermaids were gone for the moment, but they presented a problem. They could see all he did and they could report back on his actions. He was determined to swim out as far as possible. He knew he could excuse that. He could say he was just trying to see how far he might swim, just to test his own strength.

Jaskier dashed down to the beach and heaved himself into the water. He kicked and paddled as fast and hard as he could. He would find the edge of these waters or he would drown trying, as long as there was a chance that it led to the outer world. Land could be picked up and put anywhere, like a stone hurtled from a plowman’s field, but the ocean was everywhere and immobile.

In a moment, he felt a hand brush against his leg. There were shadows in the water below him. He kicked at the mermaids and howled, barked, trying to scare them off. He was terrified to think Love might be trying to punish him by sending the mermaids to drown him, or nearly drown him, just to get the point across. He thrashed in the water and continued on. After a moment, he realized they weren’t grabbing at his shoulders or his arms.

They were grabbing his boots.

He kicked as though his life depended on it. In the struggle, he was pulled beneath the surface of the water. The salt stung his eyes but he forced them open. He could not fight blind. There were three of them, blurry figures. There might be more elsewhere in the deeper, darker water below. Two of them grabbed him: one clung to his back and the other gripped his sleeves. The third tugged again at his left boot. Jaskier hooked the toe of his right under the left heel and pushed it back up firmly. He bunched his toes as best he could to hold on. The mermaid tugged again and he kicked upward, colliding with her chin. He thrashed and knocked his head against the one on his back. Their muffled cries were swallowed by the sea.

His lungs burned.

Jaskier ripped his arms out of the doublet and clawed for the surface. He kicked and kicked. He gasped and took a raspy breath upon breach. He was in open water, the shore far behind. “A boat!” he yelled. “Please! A boat! Fucking _dingy_!”

But the magic did not work here. The house could not supply.

Terrified, Jaskier swam for shore. A wave crashed over his head. He fumbled beneath the water, rolling over until he could not tell up from down. Then, the water was carrying him, thrusting him forward. He bobbed on the surface, hair in his eyes. He yelped as he went tumbling again. Then sand scratched against his palms. He went rolling up shore as a wave crashed him onto the beach.

He coughed and clambered further up, out of reach of whatever might try to follow after him. He crawled to the grassy dune and held himself up on his knees, huffing and trying to breathe in as much air as might fill his lungs.

Then he punched the fine sand. He grunted and slammed his fists against it, making more and more desperate, frustrated noises as he did. He screamed hard enough to strain his throat, his voice breaking.

“NO! NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!”

He threw the sand.

He took off running down the shore. He ran and ran. He ran through the fields of flowers and tore at them. When he reached the edge, he turned back and ran the other way. His boots were slow in the soft sand. He ran closer to the water where the wet sand was packed. He ran faster. And here he was, again at the house. He shrieked in rage. Vines tore from a lattice against his windowless wall as he climbed. He lifted himself onto the roof and turned around.

The sea did end. It was but a curve against the rest of the land. Waves appeared at the edge from nowhere, belonging to nothing.

Jaskier stood on the roof, panting. He ripped a tile from under his foot and hurled it as far as he could. It landed in the grass somewhere among the dunes. He threw another, then another. He nearly lost his feet in his fit, but he caught himself. He sat down, defeated. He stayed there awhile, hiding with his arms tucked around his knees. One more moment of weakness.

Jaskier returned to the coast with a heavy heart. Wasn’t that what he’d been doing before all this began? Even this small, fake ocean looked endless from the shore. The sound of the waves and the softness of the sand still buried everything.

He sat where the waves reached his feet. They rushed against his boots and dragged sand back. Shells appeared and disappeared. Now and then he picked something up and flicked it into the water to see it splash. The mermaids did not reappear.

Jaskier did not return to the house for breakfast. Nor for lunch. Being in the water always left him with an appetite, but he felt too hollow to eat. He just wanted to sit quietly and watch the waves. Eventually, he made his way up the dune to watch the sun set. It painted the water and sky gold. His heart ached for that bit of gold he’d been missing so long. Somehow, he found the strength to cry again. It seemed the sea had not soaked up the last of his sadness.

He was worn out, body and soul. The noise from the water was soothing and the sand was soft. He lay himself down and closed his eyes, let everything go until he was adrift on the sound of the waves, letting them carry him out to sea.

In time, something _did_ carry him. It carried him away from the crashing tide and the cold night air, towards the comforting crackle of a warm room and fire. It washed his face and hands and settled him onto soft cushions before it tucked him under a downy quilt. Gentle lips touched his cheek and a hand trailed down his arm. Jaskier blinked swollen, dry eyes. He saw a glimmer of silver hair retreat.

Sleep took hold of him once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do I post around 5/6am? Quarantine means time has lost all meaning. I just wish the birds would shut up afterwards so I could sleep.
> 
> Love curses using other gods/religious figures' names lol


	9. False Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5811

There’d been no trail. No matter how far off the path he’d looked, there was not a whiff of Jaskier to be found. The dandelion was an isolated clue and it had driven him mad half a day, gripped in his hand like a rope to keep him from falling over a cliff.

He decided then that he needed help. There was something he could not explain about the field from the moment he’d picked up the withered dandelion. His medallion had hummed wildly against his chest, just as it had done when he’d been in the fields among the frozen crops. Jaskier was involved somehow, he was sure, and he could make neither head nor tail of it. His scent on one object, buried in this valley with no trail, in the one place where anything flowered. He dug in the earth and dislodged a sample of it, roots and all—twenty or so live dandelions—and wrapped them in Jaskier’s doublet. He cradled the patch of earth and put it carefully in Jaskier’s travel bag. The withered dandelion went in the lute case, tucked away between the empty pages of Jaskier’s notebook.

The best thing to do would be to seek out Yennefer in Caingorn. She’d promised to see Borch. If she was not there, he’d go all the way back to _Aretuza_ if that’s what it took. She needed to know about the valley, and he needed to know what had become of Jaskier. There had to be some kind of spell to locate him.

The only trouble was keeping the dandelions alive in the meantime.

Geralt had never taken care of a plant before, never mind taking care of one on the road. In Kaer Morhen, he might lend a hand weeding their crop garden, maybe watering things on occasion when asked, but he knew nothing about the plants themselves. How much sun did they need? How often did they need to be watered, and just how much? He was sure he hadn’t killed any plants yet simply because he’d not been put in charge of any long-term. Whatever small damage he did by over or under-watering was always recovered from because of that.

And bees. Plants needed bees, didn’t they? There were plenty of bees in the valley, buzzing from flower to flower. Would he have to acquire bees? Did he have to catch them in a jar and let them out now and then to tend to the dandelions? If he did, he’d have to keep _those_ alive too, and he knew even less about caring for bees than he did flowers. He knew horses. That was it. And Jaskier took care of himself for the most part; all Geralt had to do was keep him from being violently murdered by cuckolded lords and monsters, which was much more familiar work.

At the very least, he lifted the flap open to let the dandelions have a bit of sun. He touched the dirt to see how wet it was. The dandelions were perfectly fine, and he guessed they’d continue living if he simply kept the dirt wet as he’d found it, and made sure they had sun. He’d ask in town for a pot or something. Hopefully Jaskier wouldn’t be too upset about the dirt in his bag. However, he was sure he’d get scolded about the doublet. Dirt in the bag was a drop in the ocean compared to the rest of the scolding that awaited him. He looked forward to it.

* * *

Jaskier woke late in the day, past noon. The sun was already high when he opened his eyes, filtering in through annoyingly gossamer curtains. The windows were closed, but he’d surely left them open earlier. He didn’t remember crawling into bed.

Jaskier’s heart raced for a moment before he rubbed his feet together under the blanket. Then he sighed. His leather heels clicked solidly: he still had his boots. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. What was his next step now?

His stomach rumbled and answered for him.

Jaskier slumped out of bed. He was cold, standing in his shirt. He remembered his doublet had been dragged under by one of the mermaids. Oh, he was going to hear about _that_ during dinner. But first, Love would hear what _he_ had to say, and he had so many things to say that Love would surely never get the chance to speak.

Jaskier stretched. He felt dry and his skin was covered in salt. He politely asked for a bath and some breakfast before washing his face in the basin over his dresser. He rubbed his teeth with the cloth and a paste of salt and sage. His mouth felt disgusting from swallowing seawater during the fight and he’d be tasting it until after breakfast otherwise.

He scrubbed himself thoroughly. The sheets would need to be changed: they had a bit of sand in them. After his bath, he emptied and brushed his boots with care, getting all the salt off of them that he could. He dressed and wrapped himself in his cloak, then settled down to a breakfast of roasted pike and potatoes. He was beginning to like potatoes. He’d not encountered them before coming to Love’s realm, nor had he had the pleasure of eating tomatoes. He was beginning to think that anything ending in _‘ato’_ was bound to be delicious, especially roasted. He’d have to look it up later. Perhaps it was indicative of their native home: part of the country’s name or province, he suspected. They must have marvelous gardeners there.

However, he had much more important business to attend to first. He had a list of research that had begun to accumulate in the last few days, mostly to do with gods of both religion and myth.

“Know your enemy, and know yourself,” he quoted aloud, picking up a book from the stack. He pointed a finger in the air in imitation of an old professor from his university years. “Evidently, I _don’t_ know myself according to _him,_ though I’ve had forty long years of my company that say otherwise. But if I must, I must. Part of knowing him is knowing what he thinks of me, and these _are_ rather entertaining stories.”

He’d had his cry and he was ready to start his search anew. If there was a way in, there was a way out of everything as well, and he’d find something eventually. Hours went by in concentrated study tucked up in his chair, reading everything he could find about Spring, Love, and the Wind. He still had the inkling he would be able to convince the Wind to carry him back down to earth somehow if he found the right way to bribe it. Kites and dandelion seeds, flags, billowy things in general interacted with the Wind and might be used to bring it some enjoyment. It carried songs. If he sang his best, it might carry his voice to someone and ask for help, or even carry _him_. It was worth a try. He’d make a list and give them each an effort. But the winds around him did not seem as present as the Wind that had swept him away with Love. It was a lifeless, mindless wind. How would he call the right Wind to him?

He remembered sailors had superstitions about whistling up a wind, so as he read, he practiced his whistle and listened to see if anything came of it. Even when it didn’t, he kept on whistling, lost in his reading.

There were many stories about Spring and Love, both separate and together. Spring overlapped with other deities: Youth and Life and Rebirth came up a number of times in his study. Love was likewise diverse. There were Eros, Lust, and the Cupid figure. Sometimes other gods or spirits took over their respective jobs. There was no singular history. But there was one that stood out and well compared to what Love had said on the subject.

“Hades, is it?” He tapped a finger against the page. “He’s more of a landlord than an undertaker, really. And with a mug like that, he looks a like several bad-tempered landlords I’ve known. Scowly, grizzly grump of a man. Not that one can really blame him, given where he lives. A dark, damp, barren underground cavern with nothing but the dead and monsters for company. It must be awful, stuck down there for all time, tending to a lot of unappreciative tenants who fear him. The rock thing and the bit about the water are a little unnecessary, but it does add a touch of needed drama. He was nice enough to that man with the lyre, after all, to bend the rules a little. His heart isn’t unfeeling.”

His eyes drifted over the page, unfocused. He stared at the yellow flames of the crackling fire in the grate.

“I’ll bet he had grey hair,” he mumbled. “From the stress.”

He thumbed the page over to an illustration of the man with the lyre: Orpheus. “Now _him_ I could easily see myself being. Or this Apollo chap. But Spring? I don’t skip around painting or planting flowers. There’s nothing connecting us. And this whole kidnapping business is more in line with what _he’s_ doing anyway. For all I know, he’s trying to make himself more sympathetic by putting details from his own story into another’s who he claims I once loved. Though, it _does_ seem to be a common opening to many of these stories. It’s ridiculous how often the stories open with an abduction. For all I know, it could be a cultural problem. Positively barbaric.”

The Cupid and Eros stories were especially helpful in supplying further examples. “Am I kidnapped in every life? If so, this bit of courtship is far too overdone, and I refuse to be part of a cliché—I’m much too original to put up with it. That is, if this woman _is_ meant to be me. I could swear this was all happening at the same time, but these damned narrators don’t bother putting a timeline together. You have to guess from family trees and little cues about what’s been discovered or invented. I should find this Greece place and demand some clear answers. For instance, if all the gods live up on a mountain, why does no one simply hike up directly to air their grievances? I can’t be the only one who’s thought of it.”

Jaskier went on reading until lunchtime when the cart appeared and nudged his elbow, breaking him from his contemplative reverie. It carried a tray with a bowl and basket of bread. In the bowl was a delightfully nutty parsnip soup. He put down his books, deciding it was time for a break.

After lunch, he took a walk to stretch out his legs. He followed along the edge of the beach, curious to see if his doublet might’ve washed up somewhere. It was possible the mermaids attacked him because they’d seen the scales of their kind sewn to it, but they’d been so determined to take his boots that he was sure it had been a deliberate attempt to trap him in this place under Love’s direct orders. However, if Love thought that far ahead to perpetuate an attack with such an alibi to throw off suspicion, he’d been underestimating him. That was a worrying thought.

He bent to pick up a large curling shell. It was enormously pretty: a shiny white and yellow thing. He wiped the sand from it and put it to his ear. Once, when he’d travelled to a large market town, he’d found such shells for sale at one of their booths. They were called banded tulips, he recalled, though he could not figure out for the life of him how it related to the flower. The woman in the booth had offered him one of her shells in exchange for a poem.

“These shells are enchanted,” she’d explained. “If you speak or sing into one, you can hold it to your ear and hear the message, and it’ll keep for years and years. Your grandchildren will be able to hear your singing long after you’ve passed on.”

He’d given her the poem and selected a pretty brownish-pink shell in return, but when he tried singing into it, he grimaced. “Your spell isn’t quite right. My voice doesn’t sound at all like _that_.”

“It sounds the same to me.”

He’d given it to Ciri to toy with when he went to visit her for the summer. Though its power of mimicking his voice was sub-par, Ciri was delighted.

“It’s like a music box!” she’d exclaimed joyfully. “But instead, I can hear you singing whenever I want.”

He’d sung the ‘Lion Cub of Cintra’ for her, naturally. Though she still asked for a live rendition now and then, she asked with less frequency. It had turned out to be a very useful trinket indeed.

But the shell he now held to his ear sang nothing but the sound of the waves on the shore beside him. He’d give his left boot to hear Ciri’s voice now. Not to Love, of course, but to Ciri. She’d find it funny and spend an hour chasing him around, pretending to be an evil faery queen, and she’d subject him to a thousand tortures: tickling, the wrinkling of his doublet, endless verses of whatever songs she pleased, and explanations of at least five dirty limericks she’d overheard from the guards.

Jaskier clutched the shell over his heart. The wind whipped empty around him and he tried whistling into it, just in case. But no Wind came. He wished he could ask it to carry news from below, or even a bit of conversation, if not a song. He wondered if Ciri were singing somewhere now, or humming quietly while she did her lessons. More likely she’d be sneaking out to play in the streets with her friends. She’d confided in Jaskier that she’d become something of a gambler, though she insisted the stakes were low. He’d done his part to give her one cursory scolding before attempting to teach her what tricks he knew. Gambling was an important skill when one grew up, as was bluffing and reading your opponent. The day she’d successfully won against him in a game of cross-and-pile with a weighted coin was the proudest of that summer.

It’d been two summers since he’d visited Cintra last. It’d been a few more since she’d needed any help understanding dirty limericks. In his head, she was always a small thing chasing after him and begging for stories of adventures and the world, and even as she was growing she liked to hear his stories, but they’d shifted from tales of romantic cursed princesses and true love’s kiss to his own stories of monster hunts and more frightening curses. And a few of the funnier mishaps of his own misplaced kisses.

“You get into a lot of trouble. You should find your true love and settle down before you end up kissing someone else’s and getting into _worse_ trouble.”

Jaskier had laughed. It had been a warm afternoon in the palace garden. They’d been sitting in the grass awhile, swapping stories after a small tea party among the rhododendron bushes.

“Is that something you believe in, then? True love?”

“I think if anyone has one, you do,” she’d answered. “If ever a story about you was told, you’d make sure of it, and you’re the kind whose story would end with one anyway. Romantic things happen to romantic people.”

“I would, wouldn’t I. But I have to disagree on one point: my story wouldn’t _end_ with true love. I want mine early on in the adventure. It’d be more fun that way.”

She’d grown into one of her grandmother’s more smug hereditary smiles and she wielded it well. It was a smile that let the observer know without a doubt that she knew something they did not, and she was laughing to herself about it in front of them, all without making a sound. The smile had sat on her lips as she’d lain back down in the grass. Then she’d asked to hear another ballad about the White Wolf.

Jaskier remembered that smile now as he stared out over the water. “I wonder what would have happened if I’d told him outright. Whatever comes, at least I’ll always have _one_ true love, for I love her with my whole heart, and I’ve never loved anyone better! I’d snap her up in a second if I could. I’d always be out of coin for spoiling her rotten. Honestly, I’d make a _terrible_ father on my own. Nobody would be there to hold me accountable.”

He laughed. It would be a spectacular mess. And it’d be wonderful.

Jaskier returned to his room to finish his reading in higher spirits. He set the shell on the mantle above the fireplace where he could see it from anywhere. All he had to do was give it a little peek and he felt refreshed by her memory. He studied harder now. Today he had another reason to hurry back home.

As the evening grew late, he began looking toward the door. Love hadn’t come for him. He dismissed this at first. If he didn’t have to sit through dinner with his captor, all the better. He could go right on reading and pay him no mind. He was mildly surprised when the sun disappeared and Love had still not come for him. His appetite told him it was long past the hour for dinner, and his gut twisted with worry. As much as he wished to be alone, it was disquieting to break routine.

Love couldn’t have given up on him. If that were the case, he’d be free to go—at least, he hoped. Love could be spiteful. The worse thought was that Love had managed to get himself killed somehow and he was left to fend for himself. The only reason Jaskier had not attempted to kill him already was that there’d be no way out without him, at least as far as he could find. It helped that Love had powers he could not define.

Was he merely delayed?

Jaskier waited. Curious, he left his room to inspect the dining hall, but he found it empty as it was in the day. He sat at his usual place and requested an appetizer tray in the meantime to tide him over. It would not do to have a full plate if Love was en route. But when it became clear that there would be no formal dinner, nor any company, Jaskier called for a light supper. He ate and waited awhile longer, wondering if he was being tested.

“Anyone at home?” he called. Only his own voice echoed back to him.

He stayed up a bit longer to finish his reading, then he washed and went to bed. He wasn’t about to go chasing after Love. If Love wanted him, Love knew where to find him. He was probably tired from having to create the beach the other day and go off to work, he reasoned. Gods surely grew tired now and then. They got headaches and injuries. They needed to eat in some stories to retain immortality. Sleep wasn’t out of the ordinary. So he slept without another thought on the matter.

Love did not come for him the next evening.

Jaskier passed the day sluggishly, his mind distracted and buzzing. He braided several colorful flower crowns and had a picnic in the field. One part of it, tucked behind the estate, was an orchard. He called for a basket and climbed all the trees to pick their fruits. It would have been easier with a ladder, but much less fun. And he was trying to squeeze as much activity out of every hour as was possible. He never had any trouble climbing anyway. No matter what tree he climbed, there always would be some hold close enough to grab. Branches and bumps seemed to spring out beneath his touch. He was never unbalanced either. A limb was always there to support his back and the fruit was never out of reach. Obligingly, branches shook in the wind, swaying toward his hand or dropping their ripe fruit as he moved to take it. It was a little odd. Perhaps the Wind _had_ come back, he rationalized. But he felt nothing stir.

He set the basket of fruit by his window and took a walk down to the beach again. The mermaids had yet to appear a second time and he was glad of it, but it left the place eerily empty. He tossed a few rocks into the water to hear them splash. Then, there was a great deal of whistling, but he still refused to sing. He had his lunch and started a new book, but it became harder to focus as the sun continued its arc across the sky. An hour before the usual time, Jaskier had his bath and dressed for dinner. He set the basket of fruit on the table as a peace offering, then he sat in his chair, legs crossed, hands clasped over one knee, watching the door.

His leg bounced impatiently and he leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. Fed up, he decided to have his supper in his room. A lovely roasted game hen came on a bed of greens and pearl onions. He ate it slowly, trying to enjoy himself as he mustered up his most smug expression. It soon became clear, however, that there was not nor would there be, an audience to his indifference.

He finished his meal and sent the cart away with polite but muted thanks. Next, he called for a book that contained information on agriculture and spent awhile reading, searching for potatoes and tomatoes before retiring for the night.

The third morning, he threw on his clothes and set off to hunt for Love’s hiding place. His cloak fluttered behind him as he strode purposefully through the halls. He left his suite and headed through the temple. In his reading, he’d discovered the proper word for it, and it was, in fact, a temple. Inside, the walls were frescoed, covered with vivid paintings of spring flowers and sunset clouds. As he went deeper into the temple, the columns became more ornate. It was like a lesson in architecture, leading from Doric to Iconic to Corinthian, interspersed with caryatids and herms depicting beautiful men and women that supported the grand arches of the ceiling. Were he not currently occupied by the task at hand, he would’ve stopped to admire them and indulge in being a little impressed with himself for retaining the minute details of his reading. He entered each chamber and was barred by no door. His footsteps echoed down from the high ceiling, his boots stomping on the mosaic tile. Then, he stopped, his nose to the air.

Narcissus.

Jaskier entered a large bathing chamber and was momentarily stunned by the thick steam and heavy smell. He fanned the atmosphere with a hand, overwhelmed by the sickly stench. He found it hard to swallow the air, but it could equally be due to the steam or the smell and there was no telling which was to blame.

“Too much narcissus can be overpowering for some,” Love said. “Used correctly, it has a sweet, subtle aroma, like jasmine.”

Jaskier gagged. “And you obviously don’t know the correct amount. Good _lords_ , did you dump the entire _bottle_ in?”

“I only wished to help you find your way.” There was a sharp, wet snap, and the scent disappeared, replaced by a gentle rose. “Is that better?”

The steam parted. Jaskier stood at the entrance of a vast pool. At the other end, half propped in the bath, was Love. He remained partly obstructed by steam, but Jaskier could tell by his posture that the attention was all on him. He’d been expected.

“Were you here _all_ this time?” Jaskier asked. His cloak was heavy and overwarm in the hot chamber, but he was too stupefied to notice how it made him sweat.

“You’ve come searching for me,” Love remarked pleasantly.

Love’s tone irritated Jaskier and he stepped up to the edge of the pool. He stood menacingly, arms crossed as he squinted across the expanse. “Why have you avoided me?”

“Did you miss me?”

“No,” Jaskier snapped.

Love tittered. There was an amused splash as Love relaxed against the wall of the pool. “I have little experience with human lies, but even I know that to be untrue.”

“I was frightened for myself in your absence,” Jaskier said. He huffed dismissively. “If you’re nowhere, you could be anywhere, or invisible again. Or you’d left me to rot up here. I rely on you to keep me alive in this place, and if I don’t know where you are or what you’re doing, my security is at stake. That is not the same thing as missing a person.”

“You were _lonely_ ,” Love crooned.

Jaskier snorted. Of course he was lonely. “I’ve been lonely since I came.” But it was not for lack of company.

A wet slap. Love patted the tile of the wall beside him. Jaskier watched him hold his arms wide in the open air. “Come join me. I will take you in my arms and you will not be lonely long.”

Jaskier stayed firmly rooted where he stood.

Love waited. Then, he lowered his arms back into the water and sighed. The surface splashed gently as he wiped his arms. “You have a fondness for baths,” he said, lifting his cupped hands. He let the water trickle down, emptying them. “I’ve called up a hot spring for you to enjoy. Do you like it?”

“I’m sure it’s very nice, but you’re ignoring my question.”

Love swam to the edge, startling Jaskier back, and rested his arms on the damp tile. His orange eyes glistened as he emerged from the remaining steam. “I thought I’d best leave you alone until my new face came together. I didn’t want to frighten you again by coming half-formed. Does it make a nice surprise?”

Jaskier gaped. The face smirking up at him was beautiful, and it didn’t belong to him. He was staring down at Geralt. And Geralt was staring back. The only differences were the eyes and an obvious effort of grooming on Love’s part. It was more than unsettling—it was sinister.

Love winked. He was smiling and leaned up on his arms, undeniably thrilled by Jaskier’s stunned reaction.

“I won’t bite,” he said, flashing a white-toothed grin. He beckoned Jaskier forward, snaking a hand around his ankle. Slowly, he ran his hand up the back of his leg, stroking his calve. Water dripped down the brown leather of his boot, leaving a small puddle at Jaskier’s heel. “Not yet, at least,” he added.

As Love tilted his head to nibble what he could of Jaskier’s leg, Jaskier pulled it back. Love drew away, infallibly amused. He folded his hands politely in front of him, still smiling as if he’d somehow won some game.

Jaskier held his gaze, expressionless. Then, he took a step to close the distance, and rested his boot on top of Love’s hands.

Love’s mask of amusement dripped gradually from his features until it dissolved.

“You tried to take my boots,” Jaskier said.

Love’s eyes flickered down at his hands. “The mermaids did, not I.”

“You sent them to. Don’t deny it.”

“I do not.”

Jaskier glared at him. Love merely stared down at the offending footwear, offering nothing more. Jaskier knelt down. As he did, he ground his boot lightly on his knuckles. An affirmation of the boots’ presence. “Why?” he growled.

Love dropped all pretense. He twitched his hands out from under the tread and clutched either side of the boot in a fierce grip as he raised himself up to meet Jaskier’s eye. “I am bound to your rules. I can take nothing not freely given or bargained for, much to my chagrin. But they are not bound to the same rules as I am; they are a bit of borrowed mythology—that of a different faith. For that purpose, I sought them out and brought them here. But they could not serve their purpose and I sent them away. In addition to that failure, they nearly drowned you. I had a fin each for their trespasses.”

Jaskier blinked and remained impassive. “I can leave in these boots, can’t I.”

“No,” Love said. His fingers tightened around the ankle of the boot. Nails dug into the worn leather. “You are still bound to me by our contract. Unless I absolve you, you cannot leave. But a little precaution never hurts.”

“The subject of the contract is vague. Is that what scares you?”

Love gave no reply.

Jaskier sighed. At least now he had one answer. And now he knew how to get more. He stood and unclasped the cloak, let it fall from his shoulders. “Fine,” he snarled. He bent to lift the shirt up over his head and cast it aside. “Then let’s discuss something else. I’ve been doing quite a bit of reading in your absence and I’ve learned a lot about you.”

“Oh, have you?” He sounded unimpressed. But his eyes were hungry.

Jaskier shook the hands off his boot. “Who is Psyche?” he asked.

Love turned away, sneering. “She was mortal, and long dead. Don’t let’s talk about her.”

“Then let’s talk about me.” Jaskier lowered himself into the water, still half-dressed. He leaned back with his elbows on the ledge. The cool tile was a stark contrast against the hot water. “Spring: Persephone in this instance. Persephone and Psyche lived at the same time, if my thinking is correct. If you loved Psyche, why look elsewhere?”

Love entrapped him, one arm on either side of the pool. His eyes were dark as he raked his gaze over Jaskier’s bare torso. “Psyche betrayed my trust. She wanted me the moment she looked upon me and not a second sooner. That was not real love. So I left her.”

“But you would change your appearance to suit me,” Jaskier retorted.

“I’ve been made over a few times now, and I’ve since learned from my mistake. There must be infatuation first to pave the path towards love. I was young and full of folly and romantic ideals. I’m older now and wiser.”

Jaskier pushed Love away with a boot pressed to his core. “I’ve loved remarkably plain people in my life because their hearts were golden.”

“They were human.” Love held the boot, caressing it. “They could choose what to be—who to be. They make their own hearts.”

“And you cannot?”

Love closed his eyes. The corner of his lip rose in what could easily be a smile or grimace, without a hint of indication in either direction. “We live in a darker age,” he explained, “where people think love is a cruel and jealous thing. Consequently, I am cruel and jealous. You would not want my heart without something to persuade you.”

Jaskier was not so easily moved. “If your way of thinking has changed, why not forgive Psyche? Why choose Spring?”

“Death and Youth … Spring and Winter … always, they were together. They were the happiest pair I’d ever known, in every life.” He sighed, running his hand up Jaskier’s leg. He let it fall, pressed his hands against Jaskier’s hips, pulling him in. “I have a cruel heart. With it comes envy. Lust. A covetous nature.” He dipped his head forward, breath burning against the skin of Jaskier’s neck. “I wanted what they had, so I lay my claim. Psyche was mortal, and I would never see her again. Even if I did, my heart is otherwise warped. I could never love her the same now, nor even if I had an older, kinder nature.”

Jaskier turned his head to the side and raised a hand to impede Love’s further attentions. “I’ve given you no permission to touch me. Please restrain yourself,” he said.

Love’s eyes widened angrily and a muscle jumped in his face as he pulled away. But it was a mere flash. He drifted back in the water, fingertips raised miserably against his temple as he closed his eyes. It looked pitiful and exaggerated, and it did not suit the visage he borrowed.

“Alas! I begin to believe that this nature of mine is too cold for you—even you who once loved Winter’s frigid heart. Am I not pathetic, my dear? Have you no sympathy? I waited eons for my chance, and now, here you are. I’ve been so faithful to you.”

Jaskier crossed his arms, tilting his chin up accusingly. “If what you say is true, you’ve stolen me from my destiny. I am young and filled with _far_ more folly that you could fathom, and I live and breathe every romantic ideal man has ever created. Knowing what you’ve done, how can you ask for my love?” he demanded. “You should be begging my forgiveness.”

“I’d rather beg for your kiss.” Love floated to him, wrapped his arms around his shoulders, imploring. “Grant me one?” he begged. “Will you give me one kiss?”

“No.”

Love tucked his face in Jaskier’s shoulder and groaned. “What gift can I exchange? What task can I perform?” Love turned his head, backed away just enough to look him in the eye. “What do you _want,_ Jaskier?”

Jaskier looked at him. He looked at this _thing_ which had the audacity to mimic his heart’s desire. This thing which failed to even do it properly. He’d watched it playact spectacularly and speak empty words from an empty heart as if they could reach him.

Jaskier stared into its orange eyes.

“I,” Jaskier replied, “want nothing but the sight of yellow every morning for the rest of my life. I want it beside me, embracing me. I want to see it every time I turn my head. I want to drown myself in it. I want it to be the very last thing I see every night before I go to sleep. And I want no one else to have it.”

_“Done.”_

Jaskier reeled as the water crashed around him. He covered his face against heavy droplets that fell like rain. The water dipped and rose, just as if something had jumped in—or out. Jaskier backed defensively into the corner of the bath and wiped his eyes, searching the room. His heart beat excitedly in his chest, suddenly filled with adrenaline from Love’s explosive exit.

“What in the seven hells what that?” he asked the empty chamber.

Only his echo answered back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers can have a little confused Geralt. As a treat.
> 
> An update not posted at 5am? How positively NOVEL! 
> 
> I made a playlist, so go nuts trying to figure out the plot from that. Think of it as my apology for pushing Geralt's song back for two more chapters. I'm afraid that I've underestimated the amount of material that I had upcoming while I was sorting out the timeline, but that just means more content for you.
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7rNMiGxesvepDJMX52EJTt


	10. True Colors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: non-con elements toward the end.
> 
> 5212

“Ah, fuck,” Geralt cursed,

watching water leak out the bottom of Jaskier’s bag. That’d been too much. He capped his water skin and tossed it to the side as he attempted to rescue the bag from the wetting clay ground. That was going to dry and cake the bottom of the bag without a doubt. He was glad he’d had the foresight to remove Jaskier’s things, but the doublet was doubtlessly done for by now.

At least he hadn’t killed the dandelions yet. They poked their fuzzy yellow heads high up out of the bag, swaying in the fresh air joyfully. They seemed just as lively as they had in the field, despite the unusual vessel they’d been planted in. The journey had been gentle on them.

Geralt removed his wet glove and prodded with a careful finger. They were soft and sprang back from his finger on good, firm stems. Experimentally, he bopped one to watch it wiggle back upright, looking proud and healthy. He beamed with a foreign delight and felt the sudden urge to turn to one side, to call someone to see.

But there was no one to turn to show.

His smile faded. Jaskier was not there. He’d been the first person he’d thought of. Above all people, Jaskier would be thrilled to know that Geralt was taking care of his own little travelling garden, doubly so to know that he kept dandelions. This is what Geralt thought as he collected his water skin and bent to fill it in the river. Roach stepped up to him, sensing that their break was winding down to its end and that they’d soon be on their way again. He stroked her damp muzzle, clicking his tongue at her. From his pocket he retrieved a peppermint and fed it to her before starting out.

“Can we make it in six days?” he asked her. “Three there, then three up to the peak.” They’d take the longer route this time since Roach was joining him. He didn’t fancy walking the dwarves’ path anyway. He knew now that he had nothing to worry about where dragons were concerned, and it was safe to trek with her up the mountain. Borch was a friend, and he’d do her no harm.

Roach shook out her mane, huffing. It wasn’t much of a response.

Geralt pet her ears. “I don’t wish to hurry back there either, but it must be done. It’ll be better, having you there with me; at the very least I won’t be walking down alone this time.”

Roach dipped her head as Geralt began the process of packing up camp. He bundled his bags together and tied them one by one to her saddle. Lastly, he threw Jaskier’s lute over his shoulder and went to retrieve his travel bag. He sprang forward when he saw Roach’s nose buried in the dandelions.

“Roach, no!” he scolded. He flipped the bag closed and pulled her head away. He glowered at her, incredibly disappointed as he looked her in the eye. He stood on one side so that she might see just how upset he was. “Those are _not_ for eating. You’ve already had a treat; leave them be. We _need_ these to fi—”

He was interrupted by Roach’s fearful whinny.

Geralt’s blood ran cold. Roach was not a skittish horse.

From far away he could hear the piercing whistle of the wind, blowing hard and fast, nearing. He whirled around, ready to draw his sword. What monster came on the wind? A wraith? A sorcerer? Or was it some new beast altogether?

His eyes went wide as he started at the open countryside. The sun was no longer shining warm yellow sunlight on the earth. Far away, the grass began to look _blue_ , the color draining from it in a horrible wave. He grabbed the last bag and hurriedly guided Roach off the road towards the shelter of the hillside. Every tree was shaking in the rapidly approaching squall. He made her lay down with her head on the ground to avoid anything that might be projected by the high wind, then he covered her head protectively with his torso, stroking her and trying to keep her calm as she breathed heavily beneath him.

The wind broke against him like a wall, knocking him away and rolling him several feet with an outburst of surprise. He grunted and stabbed at the dirt with his fingers, trying to grab hold of something— _anything_ —to keep him grounded. Roach’s scared cries were drowned out in the roar of the wind.

Something stung his eyes.

He howled in pain. It felt like claws reaching inside, gouging the raw sight from his skull. Then, as swiftly as the pain and storm appeared, they all vanished.

Geralt dropped to the ground, hissing and clutching his face in his hands. He growled, kicked at the ground, and rolled on his side. “Fuck!”

Roach ran in a circle, bucking and jumping as she alleviated the stress of the inexplicable event. Her nerves still shot, she ran to Geralt, her hooves beating at the dirt around him as she observed him from every angle, trying to gauge his reaction in kind to know the full extent of their trouble. He raised a blind hand and waved it, trying to find her nose to calm her down and let her know everything was alright. Hot, panicked breath blew between his fingers and he stroked. Slowly, he shushed, and she began to breathe normally once more.

Geralt took several deep breaths. Cautiously, he removed the hand from his eyes. Roach was looking down at him and gave a surprised squeak. Geralt was equally surprised. She looked redder than before.

He stood up and looked around them. The sky was blue just as it had been before, but the sun was now an off-white. The grass all around was a sea of blue, and the brownish-red clay of the road was now a washed-out, dusty red, lacking a sort of depth.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

Roach nudged him, looking for the comfort of his stroking hands.

Geralt complied, though he was not paying attention. He waited, listening, trying to sense the strange wind to see if it would come back again. But it was gone, and the world was still. It had come without warning and torn through the landscape; not even his medallion had foretold of its coming. Whatever it was, it had been neither magic nor monster. Now he truly hoped his medallion was cursed, for he did not like being faced with something so unknown and powerful.

He waited until his nerves settled before he finished packing Roach’s saddle. He gave her another peppermint and said many soothing things to her. They were still uneasy, but the source of the danger had passed and it was time to move on. With no more wind to rip them out from their shallow patch of earth, Geralt flipped back the top of the bag, letting the strange sunlight filter down and feed the dandelions. He wished also to inspect them, assess the damage caused by being tossed about. And then he encountered a second shock.

Amidst this sea of blue and red, the dandelions alone maintained their colors.

* * *

Jaskier had returned to his room shortly after Love pulled his vanishing act. He felt a creeping trepidation as he redressed and sat alone. The house had that same empty feeling it usually did when Love was gone during the day, but now the air hung with an anxious promise. Jaskier buried himself in his books but found he could not focus on a single word in any of them.

“‘Done,’ he said. I do _not_ like this one bit. ‘Done,’ like a done deal. I didn’t mean to _make_ a deal.” He was up and pacing now, his cloak billowing behind him. He clung to it, gripping for comfort as though it might protect him from whatever was coming. “No need to panic; just think it through,” he encouraged himself. “Love wanted a kiss. There was a lot of emphasis on _one_ kiss. He said it twice, I remember. Oh, sneaky silver-tongued _bastard!_ Asked me what I wanted next. Made it sound so harmless to answer back, but he was _goading_ me. The question wasn’t a simple ‘what do you want,’ but ‘what do you want _in exchange!_ ’ Idiot!”

Jaskier stormed to his bedside and swatted the vase of flowers from the small dresser. Love collected the fresh flowers in it for him every day. It was a small vengeance, hardly satisfying, but it would have to do. How he’d like to break something _else_ to pieces, and he knew _what!_

Jaskier sagged onto the bed. He held his head in his hands, scratching as he thought. “I’ve been vague again,” he muttered. And thank the gods for it; he could not imagine what Love would have done if he’d come right out and asked for Geralt’s eyes on him. He’d probably rip them from his head and gift them to him in a little box. He shuddered at the thought and tasted bile in the back of his throat. He swallowed it down, shook the thought away. Bless the powers that be he was born an over-dramatic poet at heart or else he’d throw himself from the ledge. But that was the poet in him talking, too.

“The sight of yellow. And no one else to have it.” He steepled his fingers under his nose, inhaling a sharp breath. Love was always to the point, very literal. He would take Jaskier’s words at face value. But was it possible to acquire such a thing? Could Love steal a _color_ from the world?

Jaskier’s spine ran with a shiver of dread. Words echoed in the back of his mind from so many weeks past. _I expect everything. Flowers and poetry …_

He jumped up and ran to the window. With a resistant tug he thrust it open wide. The overwhelming aroma of countless flowers greeted him and his heart began to race. He ran out among them, looking from blossom to familiar blossom, their names known to him now, chronicling them as he had every day.

_Every flower to be found on Earth. All here, for your own delight._

Love was literal.

It had been winter when he was taken. How long since then? How many weeks—months? The flowers never withered or changed, all bloomed together in this place, and he knew the time only by the rise and fall of the sun. Nothing else changed in this place but the meals he ate, the books he read, and the clothes he wore.

“Those bloom in late summer,” he said, eyeing one. “And those only come in the fall. But it’s spring now. It’s _spring_ , isn’t it?”

He had to look.

His heart thrummed in his chest. He ran and his boots beat hard against the ground, crushing flowers mindlessly as he hurried toward the edge. He collapsed on his chest, leaning as far over as he dared. Down below, the earth was brown and uniform. There was a barren place beneath, filled only with wild grasses. That would be the perfect place to go picking wildflowers, but nothing there bloomed. Not even a lowly weed boasted a single petal.

“Where is spring?” he whispered.

Jaskier gripped the rough dirt that rimmed the edge of the estate. His nails dug into it, grappling. He closed his eyes and let his head fall. “No, no. No, _something_ must be growing down there,” he insisted. “Come on, let something be growing. When I open my eyes, let _something_ be growing. Let there be spring. Please!”

Something wriggled beneath his fingers and he yelped, crawling back away. He thought the edge had become unstable under his weight and the packed earth was crumbling away. But when he looked, the truth was more terrible.

Where his hands had been, the grass had grown taller. Sprouts emerged from the little green patch, climbing leisurely toward the sun. The growth gradually stopped at a slope, just a foot in the air at the tallest.

Jaskier gasped, feeling more grass tickle beneath his hands. He struggled to his feet and scampered to the side. Where his hands and feet had been, the grass grew once again. He turned to look over his previous path of destruction. There was not a single mangled flower in his wake. He put a hand to his mouth, feeling as though he might lose what little he’d had of his breakfast.

“All that is earthly,” he whispered, realization dawning. “What have I done?”

And it came to him also that Love had been right. Spring _was_ here. And it would not be returning to the barren land below.

Jaskier dashed inside the temple. Here, his footsteps would reveal nothing on the marble floor. He went walking mindlessly, trying to process what he’d discovered. Whenever he came through an open passage, he hurried. The ivy and climbing roses turned to follow him, their vines unfurling toward his retreating backside with the slightest motion. The trees in each square garden reached out, hardly noticeable, offering him their fruit, but he saw it, now knowledgeable of what little signs had been appearing at the edge of his senses. He hyperventilated, smacking the leafy branches away. He rushed deeper into the temple, away from everything green. He took refuge in the heart of the stone walls.

Having entered the heart, he found himself in the midst of what appeared to be a large, empty chamber. He’d run through it earlier that morning, searching for Love. It seemed this day was much too full of running. The chamber had a high, dome-like top and the architecture was strange: a sort of amalgamation of the temple and his suite. The same rose motif that hung in this room decorated the ceiling of this place, set in stained glass such as he’d seen in the windows at Oxenfurt or the castle in Cintra. May he live a thousand years and never see it again. The walls kept their paintings and carved pillars, just as had been in the rest of the temple. He stepped forward under the colorful glass, raising his head further and further back to observe it. For a moment, his fright left him. In its place he felt a strange pull.

_“My daffodils.”_

Jaskier started, whipping around. Someone had spoken!

 _“My daffodils haven’t flowered.”_ It was a little girl’s voice. _“I’ve been waiting, but they won’t come.”_

A man’s voice joined, full of desperation. _“The crops won’t bloom. Please, I’ve prayed to every god I can name. I’m running out of time and gods.”_

The room was empty, but it was slowly filling up with broken cries, all of them seeking help. No matter which way he turned, Jaskier could find no one, though he heard every voice as clearly as if he were surrounded by people.

_“Please, end this blight.”_

_“We haven’t much longer before the stores are emptied.”_

_“People have started raiding in the northern hills!”_

_“My daffodils.”_

Jaskier put his hands to his ears and shut his eyes tight. Faces flashed in his vision: hungry, hollow faces with weary eyes. He fled from the room. As he did, he knew just what it was. It was an altar, and the voices had been prayers. Prayers for Spring. His heart told him thus.

He huddled behind a carved white column, hitting his back against the cool surface. His head buried in his arms, he let out a broken nonsense gurgle. People were starving! He could see them, could hear them begging for his help. It was too much. Was this another one of Love’s tricks? Was this a bargaining chip to leverage a union? It was far, far too cruel! His answer would affect not only himself, but every human below. If he held out to be rescued, the world might die waiting. What bargain could he make? What trifle could he offer Love to let him help the people?

Jaskier choked. He rose to his feet, supporting himself against the column. With shaking hand, he wiped his eyes and raised his head heavenward. “Eros!” he called. His voice echoed in the empty chamber. “Love!”

Far away, he heard the Wind stirring. Then, a soft summer breeze rolled over his cheek. “I’m at work, my dearest,” Love’s gentle voice crooned. He sounded so pleased. “Speak to the Wind. Tell me what compels you to speak my name after all this time.”

“Come back,” Jaskier croaked. “Come back now, please. Let the world keep yellow—I did not mean what I said. Please, I need to speak with you.”

The Wind blew harder as Love’s reply was carried forth. “I’m afraid the deed is done. Your word cannot be taken back.”

“Please!” Jaskier begged. “I don’t want it! After everything else, you can’t take yellow from them too! I know now what’s been done. Undo it! I will never forgive you if you don’t undo it right this minute!”

“We are bound to our word, Jaskier. That is the way these things are.”

Jaskier shook his head, clawing at his shoulders as he shouted into the Wind. “Take your kiss, then! But let them keep yellow! It was a stupid slip- of- the- tongue wish!”

“The deed is done,” Love affirmed.

“No!”

The Wind encircled him once, blowing his cloak wildly around and knocking him loose from his steady footing, then it returned from whence it came. “Get back here!” he roared, but the Wind only whistled sadly back. It had turned him round, enough so that he saw something, something that cast golden light behind him. It distracted him, played his tight nerves like strings. Jaskier turned back to the altar chamber and wondered what new horror this would be. He decided to find out and hurried toward the glow for lack of another thing to chase.

A mountain of offerings was heaped in the center of the room where moments ago he’d been standing. Trinkets littered the floor, each their own unique hue of yellow. A little wooden duck—duck yellow. A silk handkerchief, embroidered with daisies and daffodils—either their respective, perfect colors. A glass sun that shifted in the light. An autumn cloak with fluttering cloth leaves.

Jaskier fell on his knees. He stared, defeated at the sight before him. It was too much to absorb in such a short amount of time and he could feel nothing more than crushing disbelief. It was salt in an open wound that had been sitting long enough to lose its sting.

Then he spotted it. A modest gold coin with no crest, no pattern, sitting under a collection of toy blocks in nursery pastel and aged yellow books. He bent forward to retrieve it. It was warm in his palm, as if from sitting in the sun, and he knew from whence it had been stolen. There was no other yellow in the world quite like it. And he laughed hysterically, dangling from the end of his emotional rope. Of course it would be a fucking coin. A coin from his witcher.

Jaskier sat in the yellow chamber, meditating as he’d seen Geralt do countless times. He’d bored a hole near the edge of the coin and strung it around his neck with his shirt lace, tucked hidden from sight. He wore it like a medallion. It was warm against his bare skin—he’d always considered the gold of Geralt’s eyes to be a warm color. He’d been right. It comforted him now as he listened to the prayers drifting up from the people. As much as it pained him, he knew he must. It was his one connection to the outside world, and piece by piece, he discovered what was happening below.

They called it a blight. A plague. Everything was frozen in the fields without a single blossom. Without a blossom, there would be no fruit. No fruit, no root, not a leaf of anything edible. Already the most vulnerable were falling to it, but the worst was yet to come unless help came soon.

Jaskier bit his tongue. He told himself over and over, chanting, until it became a mantra: this was not his doing. He was not to blame. Though he knew it to be true, he felt the guilt nonetheless. He was so focused on the prayers and his chanting that he did not hear the footsteps on the tile.

“You’ve found the altar room,” Love said, his tone cheerful.

Jaskier opened his eyes.

The room resounded with light tapping as Love entered deeper into the chamber. “I would have had these brought to your room when I returned,” he said. He was just behind Jaskier now, close enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. “Deep in thought, my dear? Were you waiting for me long?”

Jaskier pushed himself up off the ground and swung round to look him in the eye. What he saw did not surprise him. He’d been expecting it eventually. It still hurt.

“Your eyes were orange before,” Jaskier said, gazing back at fool’s gold.

Love nodded. “And red before that, but you never saw.”

“Are they still red underneath? How much of this is illusion?”

Love took his hand and guided it to his cheek. He stroked it for him, letting him feel the stubble of his cheek and jaw. “It’s real. Touch it, and it will not turn to mist. I told you that my appearance would change and I meant it. This is no glamour.”

Jaskier’s hand slipped out of his grip. “You haven’t been completely honest with me. I had reason to doubt even that.” He began to circle Love. He did not want those false eyes on him as he spoke. They were another kind of untruth.

“I’ve never lied to you,” Love replied. His pleasant tone once more was replaced by one more sincere: one that conveyed how quickly he became tired of Jaskier’s obstinance.

“Not lying isn’t the same thing as being honest.”

Love jerked around to follow him. His heel clicked against the tile, agitated. “You’ve told lies enough yourself,” he accused. He reached forward and grabbed Jaskier’s chin, startling the poor man. “Do you think I don’t see it in your eyes when you speak to me? Do you think I’m blind to your deceit?” Love’s eyes flicked down to Jaskier’s lip. He ran a finger over it, then pushed Jaskier back again, releasing him from his hold. He bit his thumb, glaring down at his boots. “A _long_ courtship indeed. I’ve known you were stalling from the very beginning, trying to find some escape. You lie through your teeth with your false smiles!”

Jaskier made no reply. He would not deny it. He felt no fear even now, having known that one way or another, Love would be expecting it. Naturally he’d never been brazen enough to try escaping in front of him after they’d begun their courtship, but that was the well-known way of a captive’s courtesy.

Something, some thought brought the near- mocking delight back to Love’s disposition. “But not anymore, if my guess is correct. I find it strange—no, _contradictory_ that you would be here upon my return, in such an offending place. You asked to have yellow returned, but you were so still and silent, sitting here among these tokens. I wonder at what you were doing.”

Love looked up at the glass skylight. When he tilted his head back to smile at Jaskier, there was something eager in his eyes. “You’ve come into your own,” he declared. “More and more you’ll soon be bound by the laws that govern our kind.”

“I’m none of your kind. I’m human-born. You were born of a goddess made from sea foam and the leftover bits of a castrated _corpse_.” Jaskier spat these last words as though he might spit in Love’s face. Being compared to him in any fashion left a foul taste in his mouth.

“Only one of many births,” Love chided. “I’ve been mortal, same as you.”

Jaskier crossed his arms, challenging. “Gods aren’t mortal.”

“Certainly not, but they’re something imperceptibly identical. You see, as gods become less worshipped—whether their religion is conquered and destroyed, or the people lose faith and let it die—they become less powerful. Less godly. In enough time, they will fade, become mortal, and die. The cycle of mortal death and birth repeats and the gods bide their time until a new worship begins. When that time comes, they come into their power once more and they ascend , reborn.”

Love paced out of the chamber, moving with unhurried step. He walked between the pillars of the open hall. Here, there hung blue and purple wisteria. He plucked the head from one of many dangling flowers, twirling it between his fingers.

“People turn to prayer when their desperation becomes strong enough,” he said. His voice was deep and low, words dripping like tainted honey from his tongue. One by one, he picked the petals and let them fall. By night, they’d shrivel up and die. If they lasted till then.

Jaskier’s eyes drifted from Love to the altar. He gripped the medallion beneath his shirt. “You … you fabricated the blight,” he whispered. “The flowers weren’t merely a gift.”

“No, they were a gift. Is immortality not a more splendid gift in addition to your fields?” Love flicked the mangled flower away and returned to Jaskier’s side, beaming wide. “You know of the troubles below—how wonderful! You’ve begun to hear the first prayers at last. You’ll be a god soon enough in all your glory. As such, I will congratulate you and forgive you for your deception. You’re only human, as they say.” He chuckled at his own joke. “For the time being,” he corrected.

“And as long as I’m human, my words hold power over you and _your_ kind.”

Love waved a hand. “It requires collective belief.”

“Am I not, too, a product of collective belief?” Jaskier asked. He patted his chest for emphasis and stood his ground, even as he spoke to Love’s indifferent backside. “Do my songs not make things true? I have turned the infamous Butcher of Blaviken into the _legendary_ White Wolf, friend of humanity, with only my words. I rewrote the history of the elves so they might live on to make another. I conduct belief! I change it and make the truth for myself!”

“You make plants grow and turn the season,” Love replied dismissively.

Jaskier forced a smirk. “But not only that. You would have said ‘only’ if that was the extent of my power. You speak very carefully, but it’s telling.” He had to believe that. So he forced back that smug confidence he’d lost, let it overpower his anger and change it into something productive—protective.

Love twisted halfway. He looked, his face a mask of passivity.

Jaskier swallowed the lump in his throat. He tilted his head back and looked down on Love. “I will leave this place,” he said. The words came out even, resolute, sounding more sure than he felt.

Love turned away. “You will try.”

“I will succeed.”

“Say it all you like, that doesn’t make it true,” Love countered.

“Perhaps not. But I will make it true through one method or another.”

Jaskier’s hands trembled. He fisted them at his side. There was no telling what would come next now that the cards lay before them. Everything was revealed. There was nothing more left hidden. They were truly at odds now, and the battle was at last beginning, both sides in the know. Some shining day, near or far in the future, he would be walking by Geralt’s side again and singing of these events to document his own awing adventure. He would be free and his voice would once more create worlds.

The notion made him laugh. It was sarcastic and bizarre, but in this moment of defiance, he could almost believe anything. “I wonder,” he mused, “if I did not create _you_.”

Love leveled him with a scowl. “ _I_ wonder if you would still your tongue long enough for me to collect my kiss.”

The fear leapt back into his heart as Love’s words reminded him of the reason for the chamber full-up with yellow offerings. He backed away, groping at the columns that lined the wall to guide him. “You can do nothing without my consent,” he said. The words spilled out like a spell and he cast it, fully believing in the truth and power of the statement. Love had said so himself. But the next minute, he felt a strange tingle run through him. His wrists and ankles simmered hot as if he wore iron shackles heated by a blacksmith’s forge, and he stopped in his tracks. Suddenly, he found himself incapable of taking another step.

Love’s expression was predatory as he came forward, his steps slow, emphasized by the powerful chamber echo. “You consented to my deal,” he growled, “and I provided.” He had a hand on the back of Jaskier’s neck now. He gripped it possessively and leaned in. His breath was hot and wet against Jaskier’s face.

“I may do as I like.”

Love forced himself upon him. He crushed Jaskier in his embrace as their lips came together in a ravenous kiss. Their teeth clashed. Jaskier grunted in pain at Love’s left hand fisting, _clawing_ into the fabric of his cloak, the right gripped violently in his hair. He struggled, his back slammed against the column. Love bit down on his bottom lip before Jaskier gripped his vest and shoved him away with all his might.

Jaskier stumbled against the column as he gasped and coughed. He looked back with wild eyes. Saliva was smeared on his chin, but he made no move to wipe it away. He was too busy raising his fists, ready for the next attack.

None came. Love was only promised one kiss.

Love licked his bottom lip and straightened himself neatly. His jacket and vest had become rumpled in the scuffle. Even such a small action as that dissolved the illusion. Geralt wouldn’t fuss with hair. He’d never fiddle with wrinkled cuffs or untucked shirts. He’d never take a kiss by force.

“There,” Love concluded. He strode past Jaskier once more, pausing by his side for one last comment before he left. “Try to tell yourself that did not happen,” he said. “See if that makes it true.”

Jaskier stood alone in the altar chamber a long time afterwards. Silently he held his hands to his chest, seeking the faint, comforting warmth he kept hidden. His legs shook. Into the night, he sent a prayer of his own to whatever merciful gods remained listening. Outside, the trees rustled sympathetically in the wind. For the remainder of the night, nothing stirred. Jaskier did not sleep until long after dawn, and he wrapped himself up in his cloak, shutting out the world.

At last sleep claimed him, and he was spared the pitiful cries from below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6am, just got the internet back, and I'm back on my bullshit. Thank you for waiting.
> 
> So THAT was one of the two big twists. Love deliberately fabricated the famine to renew the worship of Spring. Can't keep something forever and all time if it's mortal now, can you? Jaskier will address the problems with Love's plan next chapter. Believe me, I'm not overlooking the holes in his plan, and neither is Love, really.
> 
> More Geralt next chapter and a look at the world and how it's changed. The timeline catches up here soon. Expect a few major developments in the future.
> 
> -
> 
> November 14, 1:30 am
> 
> For all my love of this series, I have only watched it once and as consequence forgot that the reason they didn't take the horses to the peak was that the path was too narrow. I'm going to pretend that they meant 'too narrow for a GROUP of horses' and therefore Roach can be there with Geralt because we are NOT leaving this man alone with his thoughts. And anyway, the fic's already finished. But know that I am seething.


	11. SECONDARY INTERMISSON - FILLER DOODLES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A doodle dump of favorite moments and jokes while you wait for a chapter update. I am my own fandom.

BONUS ZOOM:

If you can't tell by now, I think Roach is the best character and I love her best of all. (Sorry Jaskier.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on some (different) art for a zine the past couple days and I figured I should do some Witcher doodles during my breaks since switching between writing and drawing can be difficult and I still wanted a regularly scheduled update. I can't remember if I've ever done a landscape or not, but there ya go. Enjoy.


	12. Singer and Subject

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7122

Jaskier awoke and launched himself into the morning with manic determination. He walked into the middle of the field before the sun rose and began practicing. After an hour’s work, he managed to make weeds grow by his own will, and for lack of another outlet, he furiously weeded the square gardens, pretending each and every round pennywort he pulled was Love’s head rendered from his shoulders. He had a fair pile going by sunrise. Hot and covered in a dusty sweat, he sat back on his heels and apologized to the poor weeds of his own making. He was startled to see how they suddenly perked up, some already taking root in the loose soil. Gently, he spread them out and let them all take the earth. It made a lovely patch once they’d settled, and he called for a clay watering pot.

Love arrived just as he’d removed his thumb from the hole. “You’re watering weeds?” he asked. The furrow of his brow was remarkably similar to the one Jaskier knew, and for a moment, he almost believed he was with Geralt. But the voice was all wrong. He shook the thought away.

“Spring loves all plants indiscriminately,” Jaskier replied.

“I figured you might, though I expected you to be too busy appreciating the more beautiful, foreign varieties I provided. Were these here before? I thought I’d confided them to the outskirts of the property.”

Jaskier raised another from the empty dirt. He focused until it grew four little white flowers, then he plucked it for Love to see. “They’re so small, the flowers, that one would hardly notice them, but this used to grow in my home when I was young and I wrote poems about them. They shouldn’t be exiled. And anyway, I felt bad for them. I’d forgotten my principles for a minute, but I’ve returned to my creed of the weed. After all, I find myself fellow with them.”

“Because you’re free and wild like the dandelions you romanticize so?”

Jaskier shook his head. “Because I’m stubborn and impossible to tame,” he replied. He swung the pot upright by its neck and caught it. A bit of water dripping from the holes on the bottom flung at Love innocently enough.

Love patiently wiped the water off his arm and scratched his wrist. “Not so impossible,” he argued. “I happen to be an excellent gardener: a skill I practiced for the day we should meet.”

Jaskier scoffed. “A good gardener would know better than to choke his flowers by crowding them. That field is a mess of chaos. None of those flowers would grow so close together without the help of magic, and I know several which ought not to be in bloom this time of year, or in this climate. You’re a cheat.”

“Maybe so, but I get the results I desire.”

Jaskier swallowed a lump. “You’ll not cheat with me.”

“It wouldn’t be a true win if I stooped so low. I intend to prove myself better than _him.”_

Jaskier turned, leaning back against the low garden wall with his arms crossed. “Do you mean Hades? The whole bit with the pomegranate seeds?”

Love nodded. “It’s a true story. Take my word for it, or you can wait until your memories recover themselves in time. I think it takes a decade or so before they finish trickling in, but it’s difficult to be sure. I can only tell you what I’ve experienced for myself.”

“Na-a-ah, that part’s bullocks,” Jaskier slurred. He shook his head, pursing his lips.

Love was affronted, his mouth hanging open in an undignified manner. “It’s a mythological fact! I was there when Hermes carried the news.”

“Oh, I have no doubt I ate the fruit. I like tart things. Love a banquet. I especially love sneaking things I can’t eat—should’ve seen me tip-toeing in and out of the kitchen during holidays. But I definitely would’ve known the rule.” He trotted over to the pond and began rinsing his soiled hands. He flicked the water, a smug smile on his lips. “I knew perfectly well what I was doing, I’m sure. Demeter sounds like a bit of an over-bearing mother, no offence to her. And if the pictures are at all accurate, I would’ve eaten a whole fruit so that _god_ of a man would be stuck with _me._ And I mean god in the mortal sense. Have you seen his picture? Good lords, what a jaw!”

“He’s an absolute brute of a bore! Barely speaks a word. And his realm is the darkest, loneliest, ugliest of them all,” Love argued. “Cold as the dead. Hardly worth a good _jaw_ line.”

Jaskier dried his hands on his shirt and sauntered past him, headed back toward his room for a proper wash-up. “You’d think you’d be better acquainted with caverns, given how far up your own ass that head of yours has gone. His realm is the richest and most vibrant of all!” While Love sputtered and scoffed behind him, Jaskier skipped through the open window. All the colors of the field and this temple were nothing compared to the place he’d read about in his books. He collapsed into his chair, tossing his head back to stare into space.

“Just imagine it,” he said dreamily. “Where do all the great artists and poets go when they die? To the underworld! Can you imagine a day spent in the Elysian Fields among all the greatest singers and poets that ever lived? Imagine the dances and the parties! All the finest _brewers_ spending eternity honing their craft! I’d never be sober with a thousand things to try. And the _food._ There are fruits growing there that have never been tried by any living thing. What recipes they must know. And how fascinating the plants themselves must be. As a full-fledged goddess of spring, it must’ve been what truly seduced me, though now the poetry itself is more enticing.

“And the caverns! All the raw gems, the veins of gold and silver. I’m not a greedy man, but his realm is the wealthiest, not _just_ for its rich culture. It must be beautiful, the walls, floors, and ceiling all lit up like stars. Ah, the sonnets I could write about those views. I’d like to know them one day, if his realm still exists. If the gods are remade, I’m sure the realms to which they belong are changed as well. A shame to lose such a fantastic place, but at least we keep the stories. If my heart is always the same, I’m sure the romance of such a place would have captured me. And I’ve always had a fondness for the overlooked, the outcast, and the lonely. He paints a romantic picture, stuck with a realm he did not choose, cast away from the other gods to such a desolate place at the bottom of the world. If I go on, I may fall for him again from the stories alone! I’ve always been weak for such stories.

“I wonder where he is now, whether he might not have been reborn as well?” Jaskier continued, his eyes full of twinkling mist. “Would he have followed after me in death? I’m sure he would’ve been too heartbroken to carry on. Yes, that’s just the kind of character I imagine him to be. He’d scour the world for eternity, searching for me from the moment he lost me without rest, and then he’d run to me, take me in his arms and vow—”

“He died young,” Love interrupted, snapping impatiently. “He was a human, like you, but he died as a child and he has not returned since. I’ve looked for him, but I have not found him again. If I sensed his birth, I would have rectified the situation again in a timely manner.”

Jaskier sat upright. His eyes widened as he absorbed what Love confessed. “You killed him? As a child, you deliberately killed him?”

Love tossed a hand. “Naturally. You would have met in time, as you say; he always finds you in the end. In fact, he arrived before you did this turn round. He had a romantic heart, dreamed of becoming a great hero, slaying beasts and rescuing princesses, gifting them pretty necklaces of dragon’s teeth. An excitable boy filled with a loud courage. He was the kind of boy who could not be stopped in whatever he wished for by any earthly power. So _I_ stopped him. I tore the seed of love from his mother’s heart. Last I saw of him, he’d been left alone in the woods. When next I looked for him, he was gone. I listened for his name on the Wind, and not an echo remained.”

 _Maybe he changed it,_ Jaskier thought. If that’s all it took to hide from him, any old idiot could hide with a simple nickname. He’d done it, after all. “Is that how you find people? By name?”

“It’s not quite that simple, but it generally helps. It is only that people tend to take on a new name when they adopt a new identity. There are not many whose lives change so drastically that they cannot be recognized. Have you ever read the story of Odysseus?”

“I know Nobody of that name,” Jaskier said, snickering to himself.

“There you have it. A name makes the process simple. I could know where you are and find you at any time, so long as I had it. If I have your name, I don’t need to know you or recognize you.”

Jaskier leaned back again in his chair, thinking. Was becoming a travelling bard so different from being a viscount? It didn’t seem like enough to justify the magic. But there were many who ran off to far towns and took on new jobs to hide from the law or their relatives, so it wasn’t far-fetched. And he’d certainly changed a great deal on his travels. He’d gained a new appreciation for life and struggle, his morals had shifted into something more wholesome in many ways. He better understood the toil of working men, observing the gentry up close, blending in among them as part of the merry throng.

Jaskier tapped his chin. “I have another question for you: if we are born human, there’s no way to know what names we’ll be given, and knowing that I was once called Persephone, not Julian, it’s safe to assume we are not always born with the same name. What method did you use to find me before you knew my name, and how did you find _him?”_

“Would you like to know?” Love leaned against the arm of the chair, hovering by Jaskier’s side. “What would you trade me for the knowledge?”

“What would you ask?”

“A kiss?”

Jaskier turned his head away and scowled. “Not again. Not for a bit of trivia.”

“On my hand?” Love offered it, wiggling his fingers playfully.

Jaskier hummed. How could he come out of this better than he gave? He owed Love a debt of revenge for his twisted deals. “I guess that’s not the worst thing. For a hand kiss then. You tell me first, then I’ll kiss it.”

“We always know when and where a god will be born as part of our nature,” Love explained, placing his hand in Jaskier’s upturned palm. He gave it a squeeze. “There’s a pull of magic from the place that we all sense. However, it is only that single burst until that god comes into power. They are otherwise human afterward, indistinguishable but for that moment. There is a sign, always, that marks the event and the identity of the god. You were born the first day of spring, at the moment the first flower bloomed. He was born and a bird died of the cold outside the nearest window.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes. In time, I’m sure you’ll come to experience such an event for yourself. Now, my kiss, please. My hand is cold.”

Jaskier raised his hand with a flourish. However, his eyes were full of mischief. He gave the hand a chaste kiss, then gathered extra spit on his tongue and licked it grotesquely.

Love reeled back and gave a disgusted grunt, his hand dripping. “You cheat! You ruined the moment!”

“You didn’t ask for a moment,” Jaskier chided. “Only a kiss.”

“I’ll remember that in the future.” Love wiped his hand on his shirt, pouting. He scratched his wrist again before moodily sitting in the opposite chair.

Jaskier hopped off the couch in much higher spirits. “You do that. I’m full of tricks and I’ll find a way to get the better end of any deal you devise.” He finally went to his dresser and began washing up in the basin with clean soap and water, effectively washing his hands of the conversation, and Love’s lingering touch.

“Don’t be too sure.”

Jaskier dried his hands and reached into a small pot of cream. He rubbed the fragrant lotion into his hands and wrists. “By the way, you should try some of this. Your skin is all dry. Unless you do something about it, you can forget about any future hand kisses, lick or no lick.” He took a sip of water and swished it around, scraping his tongue on his teeth to remove all traces of the interaction. He spat loudly into the basin and wiped his mouth.

“I’m not sure dry skin is the true issue. I’ve been itchy for some time now. I wonder if it was too ambitious, bringing the poison ivy. Not much of a reward either, given how small the flowers are, but I _did_ promise you flowers, so I spared no expense.” Nevertheless, he held up a hand and Jaskier tossed the pot to him. He rubbed cool circles over the skin. “It helps, but not much.”

If it were anyone else, Jaskier might be courteous enough to ask how long he’d been itching, or he might offer to take a look. He might even whip up a bit of oatmeal to plaster the rash. But he delighted in Love’s meager misfortune, so he kept quiet. Well, a few notes of cheerful humming weren’t amiss.

His breakfast cart rolled into the room on cue. The sun was now higher and the day had begun, silently as always, with no birds to keep him company. It was such an insignificant thing that he hadn’t noticed at first, but he missed it. He’d even asked the cart to creak and squeak as it rolled, just to make a bit of noise. It did now as it stopped beside his chair.

It was then that he noticed there were two settings. Love would not be leaving just yet, it appeared. But then, there was one thing more he hoped to discuss.

“On the subject of deals, I’ve given it a great _deal_ of thought. I want to make another.”

“Fool me once …” Love warned.

Jaskier dismissed him. “No tricks this time. I need the proper outcome far too much to try and spoil my chances with pettiness. A sincere deal for a good price.” He returned to his seat in a business-like manner, resting his joined hands over his knees.

Love leaned forward, taking up his cup with a grin. “Knowing that it means so much to you, this request, it makes me want to raise the price. It’ll be more than a kiss this time.”

“I know.” Jaskier closed his eyes, bracing himself. He took a deep breath before opening them again. “I want to go with you and return the flowers when you go out today. I want to make things grow again. The people’s prayers frighten me; they say they’re dying down there—starving. You cannot use them against me if you ever want me to truly love you. Show me you have a merciful side. Be better than the actions that made you. I might even become fond of you for it.”

“Impossible,” Love said, not bothering to look up from his morning brew.

“Have a heart!” Jaskier cried. He leapt to his feet. “If you let the people starve, there will be no one left to worship you, and you will die with them! You said it yourself that a god dies when there’s no one to pray to them, and if _I_ don’t answer their prayers, you’ll lose me the moment they give up faith regardless. One day sharing spring isn’t too much to ask. Just let things grow! You’d be with me all the while: there’s no hope of an escape.”

“That isn’t my concern. You do not spread spring by making things grow. Nature does it for you. You merely oversee it all, inventing new breeds of plants, arranging the light and weather. If you had to make every individual seedling grow, you’d never make it past the smallest country before it was Summer’s turn to work. And you are not yet accustomed to your power.”

“Oh.” Jaskier sat once more. It was true that he did not have a grasp of things just yet; merely making the pennywort grow had been a task. “Would it help to return the flowers? Would nature get on well enough with them?”

Love took a sip, then set his cup aside. “That much could be arranged. I could return the flowers to the people below, exactly as they were when I plucked them, no damage done.”

“And yellow,” Jaskier insisted.

“Ah, now that is not so simple. According to your contract, your stipulation was that no one else could have it. Even _I_ no longer see the color, though I was surrounded by it in your altar. Look closely. The color you gave to my eyes is there now, in your new vase. I made it a lily for you so that you might cherish it while I am away.”

It was true. Love’s eyes had changed. They were a pale red color, demonic against Geralt’s features. Jaskier had avoided looking before, trying not to get too used to the sight, lest he forget who he was dealing with.

“Is that the red they were before?” he asked, pointing his finger at his own eye, twirling it. He gave Love’s eyes another curious glance.

“Yes. The color of passion. Some poet or other decreed it centuries ago, and you know what they say about eyes and the soul. The color changed to match. They’ve been many colors since the early days.” Love crossed his legs and pushed absently at the handle of his cup. He stared at Jaskier. His expression was impatient—dedicated. “Now then. For the return of the flowers, what will you offer me?”

His answer was ready. “One night. I offer you one night in my bed. I will hold you in my arms and you will face away. There will be no other touching whatsoever.”

“Will you whisper in my ear? Stroke my hair and kiss my cheeks like a lover?” His words dripped with sarcasm, but his eyes were hungry.

“I will rest my head against yours as we sleep and circle my arms around you. Is it not enough that you’ll be close enough to feel my breath?”

Love wet his bottom lip. “When we go to sleep, you will wish me good night and call me by name, just as I shall,” he said.

“Is that your final addition?”

“Yes,” Love said, so quickly he caught the end of Jaskier’s question. He reached his hand forward.

Jaskier shook it. “It’s a deal. I will see you tonight.”

“Take a late bath. The lavender,” Love added, already imagining the night ahead. “And perhaps I’ll get you a gift on my next outing.”

“Fine. Be sure you don’t forget a _single_ flower. I want them all returned. I don’t want anyone to starve because something went overlooked.”

Love nodded solemnly. “I promised you that all the flowers would be returned. Gods are bound to their oaths. First thing after breakfast, I’ll gather them all. I’ll return every last one where it was found as I journey through the world. Just be sure you’re ready when I return this evening. The work will be tiring, and I expect an early night.”

As they ate breakfast, Love was almost giddy with anticipation. The smile never left his face. It was irritating, but Jaskier in turn was in far too good a mood to let it bother him. By nightfall, the people would have hope again. The discouraging prayers would cease just as quickly as they’d started, and he could go on rebuffing Love in peace. In the meantime, he could practice his new powers until he might use them to escape. He already had an idea in mind. It was strange, witnessing the things Love could do. He wondered what he himself was capable of.

“How can you do these impossible things?” Jaskier asked. “Your power should be confined to your role as god of love, shouldn’t it? What gives you the power to take away all the flowers? Or a whole _color_ for that matter.”

Love swallowed and patted himself with his napkin in a dainty fashion that would be wholly repellent to Geralt’s image, were it not so comical. “How many times have you heard the phrase ‘love conquers all’ or ‘through love, nothing is impossible’? How many people have said it, do you think?”

“Ah, yes. Another instance of the power of words and collective belief,” Jaskier concluded.

Love shrugged in false modesty. “I always conquer. It’s one of my more favorite things out of the many blessings the world has given me.”

“I ought to think more about what songs and sayings Spring has.” Jaskier stirred his tea, eyes wandering toward the fireplace mantle, lingering on the seashell. Ironically, he knew far more songs about the summertime, as he’d collected them to sing to Ciri on his visits. It wouldn’t be honourable to the seasons to sing about spring when summer was in its glory, after all. He had some research ahead of him, it appeared.

* * *

Geralt kept a sharp ear tilted into even the slightest current, listening for any sign of the strange wind. Even as the day wore on, he worried it might return. What frightened him most—and he had to admit, it _had_ frightened him—was that there had been no warning. He would repeat this to Roach several times in the course of the day.

“Monsters and magic,” he said. “What else could it be?”

It was the first he’d said since breakfast, but already Roach looked at him tiredly. It was a lot of talk from one who was so inclined towards silence much of the time. True, he spoke more to his horse than to many others, but he’d been so unsettled, he’d been more willing with his words than usual. He was talking himself in circles.

“A ghoul comes within yards and it will vibrate, a spell lingers on a cursed object: it vibrates. That was no natural wind, and yet, nothing. The medallion did _nothing.”_

He gripped it in his fist. For almost an hour, he’d been staring at it, trying to puzzle out what it might have been that caused the wind that stole color from the world. Green was gone, orange and yellow, brown was washed- out as well. If it hadn’t been for the dandelions, he might’ve thought that he’d been injured by the wind in such a way that he might not see colors clearly, but there they were, just as brilliant gold and green as before. It had been magic, and his damn medallion hadn’t sensed it.

“She said none of them knew what caused the blight,” he went on. He spoke of Yennefer, naturally. He didn’t need to explain that to Roach. Roach was a reliable listener. “It was a kind of magic they’d never seen. _This_ is a kind of magic I’ve never seen. I know they’re connected somehow. They’ve got to be.”

What was Jaskier? If everything became fucked up in his absence, just what was he to cause these things to happen? It occurred to him that Jaskier might be a fae: something so powerful that he might hide it from even a witcher’s medallion. But he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Jaskier wasn’t a malicious person, and this was far beyond what he was capable of inflicting. Could he kill a man for insulting his art? Without question. Would he scratch out the eyes of anyone who dared to try and steal his lute? Certainly. Was he a petty man at the worst of times, who spread creative rumors about his rivals in a never-ending war? Or course, but there’s no true harm in saying a certain troubadour had a warty cock from bathing in a pond ringed with fae toadstools. It was a fair shot, considering the things Valdo Marx said in instigation. But Jaskier would not deprive the world of the beauty he so lovingly praised in his song. It would break his heart to know that the sun no longer set for a golden hour at the end of the day.

But he was surely at the heart of it all. Geralt placed a hand over his chest. The withered dandelion sat in his pocket, bearing a trace of Jaskier’s scent. He’d searched Jaskier’s notebook for clues and found nothing but the dandelion he’d put there himself. A _dandelion_. A field of them in full bloom, hidden away in a world without spring. It was a message, he knew. But he couldn’t tell _what_ the message was for. He’d repositioned it in his pocket to keep it closer in the hopes that it might inspire his thinking.

Yennefer would know. He had to believe that. At the very least she might find the dandelions useful in eradicating the blight. Whatever the cause, the dandelions were immune. From them, they might devise a cure. That might buy the world enough time to go on while they searched for the source. Perhaps Jaskier had sent them for that purpose, or had discovered the valley before whatever caused the blight silenced him.

Geralt twitched, forcing the thought away. Not silenced. Nobody could ever silence that pesky songbird. And he had to hope, to _pray_ that nothing ever would or could. If he found Jaskier at the end of it all without a song or bit of breath in him … He didn’t finish the thought. There wasn’t strength enough in him to try and imagine it. If there was so much as a single hair out of place on his head, he’d strike down the very _gods_ themselves for sitting idly by and letting it happen.

When he came upon the first farm that marked the edge of another civilization, he was swift to hide the dandelions away beneath the flap cover of the bag and secure it. He did not need any wandering eyes to catch sight of them. There would be far too many questions for which he had no answers, and violence would follow. It would be a particularly merciless variety, given the current state of the world. A witcher, wandering through town with the only blooming thing in all the Continent, possessing the only sight of yellow and green to be found. He’d have no time for excuses. He knew he’d be blamed for the blight in a moment. Even without the dandelions he’d had trouble. More than once, he’d hidden his medallion before buying food at the markets. People were particularly vicious towards his kind in light of the disaster.

As the scattered farms lead to small towns, he put up his hood and tucked his medallion away beneath his cloak. The closeness of the towns told him a city was not far. The increasing quality of the road told a story itself. The road was worn wide and smooth from years of travel: large carts, wagons, caravans. It’d be a sizable city, not as large as any capital, but one with good trade. With as many farms as there were in the surrounding parts, a decent market as well. Here he could replenish his supplies. It was the largest settlement before one reached the mountains. He intended to stay the night, then ride out in the morning. With any luck, when night fell the next day, he might reach the inn at the mountain’s foot where Borch and his company had asked him along, cutting a day off their estimated time. Roach seemed willing enough, and he was too anxious to be tired.

With his hood high and his head low, he entered the city walls. As in any city, the streets were full of life, people coming and going, bumping elbows, and the air thrummed with noise and activity. He’d find the market first, then look for a cheap room and stable for the night. If at all possible, he’d find a message board or a gossipy tavern keeper with work for him. He preferred to save what coin he could. Even so, it might not be worth anything in a matter of weeks.

He found a pickler’s booth at the market and bought himself two jars; one of vegetables: onions, garlic, string beans, cabbage, and carrot—and one of pickled peaches. In time, when the fresh fruits and vegetables ran out from the storage cellars, pickles would be all that was left. For now, they were considered less of a luxury. He could afford it, and they would keep on the road.

“What fine hair you must have had this morning,” the woman behind the booth sighed. “Must’ve been a pale yellow to go so white. And green eyes, I’m sure, for them to have gone so light and grey as they are, just like my daughter.”

Geralt looked at her as he laid two coins in her palm, his eyes wide. The confusion must’ve shown on his face, however, she misread it entirely.

“Sorry, dear; did no one tell you your eyes were grey? You must’ve been colorblind not to notice the difference. The world’s gone and changed this morning! Another curse swept through the land—all anyone’s been talking about. I had orange hair not an hour before lunch! Look at it now: so dingy red. But I suppose that’s the same to you. Had to explain it to him, too,” she said, nodding to the beekeeper in the next booth over. “Can’t see anything but red and blue since the day he was born. I guess we’re all living in his shoes now.”

Geralt cleared his throat, nodding. “They’re just grey,” he lied, making excuses for his reaction.

“Really? You don’t see many people with grey eyes in this part. You travelling? Here: a bit of apple if you tarry awhile and talk. I’d like to look at you a moment, try to imagine the color of your hair.”

“Toss the apple and make a run for it,” the old man jeered from the next booth. “She’s a hussy and a flirt! She’ll ruin your reputation if you linger too long, son!”

Geralt choked before he even held the sample in his hand. _Son?_ These people were being far too familiar with him. He wondered if he’d hit his head somewhere.

“Go gargle honey!” she threw back. “Can’t a pretty woman bat her eyes now and again at a handsome stranger without being accused of indecency? Not like I’ve got a husband to hold me back. You’ve had your prime, now go on and let me enjoy mine.”

“Cheeky woman. You’ll do better to listen to me, lad, and cut out quick before she can seduce you with her pickled pie filling. That’s how she got the last one.”

She turned back to him, ignoring the old man’s teasing. “That’s a fine sword you’ve got, poking around your back. Are you a knight? No, you’re a mercenary, aren’t you? You cut a noble figure, you know. A cloak that dark, must’ve been a lovely, vivid dye. Probably work for some great lord, don’t you. Was it green before? I think green would suit you fine.”

Timidly, Geralt removed his hood. He glanced at Roach. What did she make of this? “I’m not a knight,” he replied. He debated telling her he hunted monsters, just for the novelty of continuing such a friendly conversation with a stranger, but he was afraid to offer this hint. He took the pickled slice of apple to excuse himself from speaking. It was deliciously sweet.

“A bard, then?” She tilted her head back and pointed to the lute. “Smart to carry a sword on your travels. Still, I doubt anyone would try to rob you on the road. You’re about as built as your horse.”

“See? A flirt if ever there was one,” the old man said.

Geralt smiled.

“Oh, now that’s a sight worth a whole jar of apples,” she said. “Look at that dimple.”

Geralt looked down. This situation was so foreign, he actually felt flustered. They didn’t know. Nobody knew.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. “For the apple. And the talk.”

“Don’t you hide yourself from me, poor dear. At least give us a wink before you go. Look, you’ve made him shy, you old windbag!”

“I was aiming to make him wise, but I’ll take it!”

Geralt collected his jars and packed them in one of the saddlebags while the two jabbered back and forth. He hurried away before he could be roped back into the conversation.

Looking around, Geralt caught a glimpse of his reflection in a window. His hair was white as it had ever been, but his gold eyes had gone grey. His clothes were still black as before, but he noticed others in the market wore dark clothes as well, their colors stolen away, leaving things black, grey, brown, red, and blue. People with yellow hair now sported white and grey wherever he looked. All eyes were blue, grey, and cold brown. He stood among these people, one of many, blending right in just as if he were a regular human. The signs which painted him a witcher were invisible in the wake of the stolen colors. He was no longer a beacon in the crowd.

“Jaskier will have a fit when he hears this,” he said quietly to Roach. It was just the sort of fairytale situation he would spin into his songs. Geralt of Rivia, a man of the people, now among the people as if he belonged.

People did not stare at him as he passed. If he looked at someone, they simply nodded or smiled to say hello before going on their way. Someone stopped him to admire his horse when he sought out a stable, and he stayed awhile to boast his love for his steed, telling the man about all her training and one or two anecdotes in which she’d done something or other to save him in a sticky situation. This rare camaraderie was bewildering. He felt nearly drunk when he entered the inn to a greeting people normally offered only to Jaskier. A mug of beer was poured for him as he paid for his stay up front, but he didn’t need a drop of it to start his head spinning.

This was what it felt like to be human, he realized.

He’d only stopped for a quick drink and dinner. When he finished, he planned to head directly upstairs to bed. His bags were still at his feet, under the table, Jaskier’s lute slung over the back of his chair. However, a rowdy group of half-drunk minstrels spotted him. He knew them directly: they wore the same once-colorful paraphernalia that marked their particular breed, though their clothes were less bold, of a milder taste.

The moment they spotted him alone, a man with such a fine lute, they cheered at him and waved, then with clumsy swagger descended upon his empty table and made themselves at home about his shoulders.

“A lieutenant!” one cried with heavy tongue. He carried a fiddle and bow in his hands. He made a face, rolling a few other variations in his mouth as he looked for the right word. “Lutensist. Lo-o-o-oter. Lutey … Lutist! Give us a song!”

“It isn’t my lute,” Geralt said, shifting uncomfortably away. Acting friendly was one thing; it was quite another to get in his personal space. There was only one musician who claimed that privilege.

“Yes, a man’s instrument is for the people!” another sang. He swirled the air with his pipe, gesturing to the crowd. “We’ve just finished a bonny, bawdy ballad each. Tonight, we’ve fallen in with good company! Three travelling minstrels all together, meeting for the first time in a pub! And here now, a fourth!”

The third was flush in the face, giddy from several rounds: compliments of the enthusiastic tenants, many of whom were now encouraging the minstrels in their attempt to accost Geralt into their group for another performance, their attention stolen. He had a small harp. “Sounds like the ‘ginning of a joke. Here, lemme thin’g on it. Four minzdrels inna bub … inna a _pub_ …” His friend caught him before he slipped out of his chair.

Geralt snorted. He’d seen Jaskier in that state on more than one occasion. “You’d better get him to bed before he cracks his head on the floor,” he replied. “Go on. My food will get cold.”

“The only thing better than hot pea soup is the _cold_ kind,” the fiddler said, waving his fiddling bow. “That is how the _fancy_ folk eat it. Let it grow cold and live a little cultured for it, and waste not this golden opportunity to play in such a fine band! When will such another opportunity present itself to play with so many instruments in accompaniment?”

The piper, soberest of the bunch, swiped his bowl out from under him and danced with it into the middle of the pub, gesturing to the other patrons. “Play!” he demanded. He excited the crowd, pulling them together into a chant. It had evidently been a good night for entertainment. “Play! Play!” they chanted.

Geralt saw a bit of thick soup dribble over the edge of his bowl. He sulked. This was the kind of personality he was very familiar with. There would be no persuading them otherwise.

With a sigh of defeat, Geralt opened the lute case. There was another more convincing voice in his head, egging on in its owner’s absence. Another addition to the story for Jaskier. But oh, how he’d hate knowing what he’d missed, or knowing that a group of three strange minstrels persuaded him to perform where he had failed. But Jaskier had enough sense even drunk than to take a witcher’s meal. These clueless drunks were ignorant of their error. And Geralt was in the mood to humor. He downed the rest of his ale.

There was one simple song Jaskier had managed to teach him. His voice was low and rich, rumbling in his chest. When he sang, he did slowly, though that was more owed to him trying to remember the notes than for experienced dramatic effect:

_Sing me something gentle: soft and sentimental._

_A song of a spring gone by._

_In song belong the gentle blowing breeze,_

_The mem’ry of the lark, the lamb, and dragonfly._

It was written clear on the faces of the people that they’d been expecting an altogether different sort of song. The mood of the night had been a wild one, full of laughter and merriment. In the rowdy pub, they’d forgotten the looming circumstances and dark days that awaited them.

And yet, the song was not a depressing reminder of the future. Instead, it was a nostalgic memory: a melancholy reminder of the past. It was a first love, praises for a fallen warrior in battle, a child whose friend had been sent away to some relative and whose letters were forgotten in time.

The people settled in their chairs. They leaned back, let the song wash over them, each recalling some sweet spring from long ago.

_Sing me something sweetly: a secret, discretely._

_A song I might call my own._

_In verse rehearsed or bumbled humbly,_

_If you might sing of me, in whispered baritone._

As Geralt sang, it occurred to him that it was a song Jaskier himself had composed. He’d known that, of course, but he’d never truly listened to the words or tried to interpret their meaning. He’d been too distracted by the lesson itself and Jaskier’s brilliant attention, trying to memorize him in a rare, dazzling moment. He made the very sun shine brighter when he shared his music. And they’d been alone on the road one fine summer night, by the glow of the stars and fading firelight. The scenery itself rhymed, just to suit him. The moment was poetry.

Who sung in baritone? And who was the singer, Geralt wondered? Who was the subject being sung to? What did Jaskier hide under his vagaries?

He wished he was bold enough to insert his own hopes between the lines.

_Sing a song of wand’ring: of endlessly pond’ring._

_A song for a heart of pine._

_Let go, let grow, the earnest evergreen;_

_Sing a silly dream: a vow that you’ll be mine._

Geralt’s fingers stilled on the strings. He let the last note echo another moment before he hurriedly packed the lute back in its case. He realized too late that the song did not belong to the crowd. It was not something he wished to share. Even so, it had to be sung at least once for him to know, and now he knew. Now he would keep it for himself.

A silent sigh swept through the room. At last, the crackling of the fire and a too-soon clink of a careless utensil by some apologetic hand broke the spell. The people acknowledged him with here and there a glassy eye. With some shuffling, a small stack of coins was passed from one hand to another, across tables, and set noiselessly before him. The piper who had been hugging the bowl of soup in the crook of his arm returned it. He gathered up the harpist, lulled to sleep, and thanked Geralt with a nod.

Geralt finished his dinner quickly and retired to bed. He spent an hour in the dark, the bag of dandelions on the empty space by his side, whispering to them the story he would recount when he found their master.

[The Sorrowful Spring](https://vimeo.com/412706021) from [Rebranded Bard](https://vimeo.com/user114098720) on [Vimeo](https://vimeo.com).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not THE song Geralt sings, but these minstrels wrote themselves into the scene and I couldn't shoo them away, so Geralt has two songs now. Think of it as a bonus for waiting so long while the scene has been pushed back for extra chapters.
> 
> -
> 
> SURPRISE! Two chapters in a row. I wanted to post them side-by-side firstly to make up for my short absence, and secondly, so nobody could make any guesses before the second chapter. Some of y'all are getting too close to the truth in the comments. Gotta prove I'm actually coming up with my own ideas lol. Don't worry, I don't mind the theories and guesses at all, I just like to tease. I'm glad nobody saw the whole praying to another god thing coming though (next chapter). Big relief there.


	13. The Details of Vagaries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Love being uncomfortable again. There is wrist-grabbing, and the yanking off of a doublet. He is also very rude and snippy. Be mindful.
> 
> 5307

It was a striking scene,

the empty field. It was all torn earth and grass in the absence of the flowers. A perfect blank canvas.

Jaskier called for a rake and began at once. He levelled the soil and began making neat rows of it. There had been many times on the road where his lute was in need of repair, when he would take up occasional odd jobs to fill his pockets or earn his keep. He’d been a ditchdigger, a road paver, and more often than not a spare gardener. True, he had no seeds to sow, but he had better.

Along the rows, he practiced growing tiny sproutlings, testing his power. From nothing came a timid patch of pennywort. Then clover. He practiced small with moss and grasses, working up to larger things as he made his way down and over the rows. Thistle, dandelions, fennel, and fern. He managed to make wildflowers burst up from the ground in a matter of minutes which would otherwise take days. In the course of the afternoon, his brow grew damp with sweat, and he conjured a small garden filled with freesia and carnations. He wondered if he got the colors right. Not that it mattered—was it not more impressive to grow them against their natural colors?

He collapsed against a tree and let out a long, hot, whistling breath. The branches of the tree drifted towards him, the closest encircling him in kind support. He patted the bark, smiling.

“A solid effort for a first day,” he said. “A bit of fortification, some extra practice, and I’ll try tackling a rosebush next. Primrose first, then classic. Once I’ve got a great big bush going steady without a sweat, I’ll try for a fig tree. Afterward, I’ll work until I can make them all as big as I possibly can. I think a nice pea stalk will do just right: no thorns, no fuzz—nothing too troublesome to hold onto.” He leaned in close to the nearest cluster of leaves, whispering conspiratorially. “That’s the plan, you see. I shall escape the giant’s lair, tangled in a pea plant in the early morning: a bit of a reverse ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ scenario. Then, I shall run as fast and far as my boots will carry me, and if that bastard or his Wind tries to take me, I’ll grow roots from my very soles so nothing can move me!”

The leaves trembled excitedly and he grinned. “Thank you. You’re a surprisingly attentive audience,” he remarked.

Jaskier stretched himself out on a bed of velvety moss he’d grown and closed his eyes. Using magic was draining—if it _was_ magic. He decided it was as good a word as any. His mind was racing with a thousand ideas he wanted to try in good time: striped tiger lilies, buttercups shaped like teacups … and eventually, more magical, ambitious things such as snowdrops that sprinkled white pollen like snow, poppies that popped open to spread their seeds, and larkspur that inexplicably attracted larks with the best singing voices to their gardens. All things he would have to look forward to gifting the world after his grand escape. It seemed more than possible now. He rolled over and put his hands behind his head, feeling the warmth of the filtered sun on his face. It made him smile.

Geralt would _have_ to be impressed, or at least offer a gruff, “How the fuck did you do that?” when Jaskier showed him his newfound abilities. Surprising Geralt was just as much fun as earning his praise.

“Hmm.” Jaskier opened his eyes, looking up into the green foliage above. Geralt was an unusual name; it didn’t really belong to anything that he could put a finger on. It was a bit like Geralt himself. It was a lonely name, deserving of something nice. He could invent a namesake for him—he had the power.

Jaskier bounced his foot in the air, thinking. It’d have to be a wildflower. Something gold to match his eyes. Perhaps something hardy and mountainous, like the flowers that would grow in Kaer Morhen. It would not do to make a flower that he couldn’t find at home. Something tickled his ear and he sat upright.

A wild yellow geranium was sprouting beside his head. An arc of them, actually. Galanthus intermingled with them in a display of the very sorts of flowers he’d considered, just as if they’d sprouted from his thoughts. “Yes!” he said, plucking and turning them over in his hands. “But not just these. Something new. Something wolfish.”

He tapped an empty spot in the soil. A fuzzy stalk began to grow slowly from beneath his finger. “I’ll keep these,” he said, eyeing the broad leaves of the geranium, “but just this bit. The rest is too much.” Instead of a leaf that split in three, the stalk grew a new, singular leaf. He grinned to himself, thinking it looked rather a bit like a dandelion leaf, if a little less toothy. “And why not? He _is_ a soft-heart under it all.” He chuckled, moving to the next bit of invention.

“The heads of these are lovely. Put together, they might look like a more dignified daffodil. Regular daffodils look too silly.”

He pinched the tip of the furry stalk and as his fingers slipped away, a bulb formed. He spread his fingers and beckoned it higher. The bulb opened, blossoming into a bright gold head like a buttercup. He poked the middle. A drooping pale corona grew from it. He wiggled it open, spread the petals. If you squinted the right way, it resembled the witcher medallion. He stroked a bit of color up the petals from their base, then pulled away. It was perfect.

“Geranium and galanthus. A Geralanthus.” He made a face. “No. Too regal. Geralthus sounds much better. And it actually has the name in the middle there; that’s the important part.”

He dug into the loose soil, picking it up gently from the root. He raised it high with pride. “A Geralthus! What a lovely flower!” He trotted with it back to his room. He whipped his head around until he spotted a tea tray on the low table. It appeared for him in the early afternoon, usually after lunch, and stayed until before dinner, or at least until he’d finished off the pot. He hadn’t had his tea yet, so his cup lay empty.

Victoriously, he potted his creation in the empty teacup: a pretty green thing with a bit of gilding. He fluffed the flower up, adjust it comfortably, and gave it a proud kiss before placing it on the mantle beside his shell.

“Now I know you’re a wildflower—I _would_ know, I mean, I’ve only just finished _making_ you—but please be a dear and grow well in your little cup for the time being. I would hate for you to get trampled outside. I promise I’ll find you a nice sunny place around the wilds of Kaer Morhen to set you free eventually. Oh, or perhaps Rivia. Which would be better? Fuck, I didn’t think that part through; the native land in which a flower is found is too important to be left to guesswork. Where exactly _in_ Rivia is he from in the first place? Ideally, I’d like to plant it by his childhood home. O-o-o-oh this is going to turn into a bit of a mess.”

He groaned and stroked a hand over his face. “I’ll think about it again later when there’s more time,” he grumbled. “Forget the last bit. Savour the moment of creation!” He closed his eyes, took a breath, then held his arms up in celebration. “Lovely! Splendid! Noblest of wildflowers, the resilient, the handsome, the indomitable Geralthus!”

The flower bobbed its head almost sarcastically in response to his awkward cheering.

Jaskier sniffed. “Huh. Maybe I made you a little _too_ in his image.” But it only served to please him all the better.

Jaskier was drenched with sweat by the end of the day, caked in dirt, flaked with bits of petals and leaves, and sporting several small red cuts and scrapes from wrestling with a particularly unruly rosebush. But he’d done it. He’d _wanted_ pale ivory roses, but the moment he cut himself on their thorns, they turned red. There had been a great deal of cursing and mud-flinging involved in the whole affair.

“Vile, blood-lusting, vindictive, insubordinate, parasitic _bastard!”_ He chopped off a creeping branch with the business end of a shovel. The thing twitched and leapt at him. He gave a cut-off shriek and smacked it flat, batting it away as far as it would go. “Bad bush, naughty bush! Down, _down_ now!”

He’d only been trying to make a climbing rose that would more eagerly wrap itself around the columns without need for direction. It turned out, it had been a little _too_ eager to wrap itself around _him_ instead. He lamented the state of his clothes. Dirt would wash; blood and tearing wouldn’t.

“How in fuck’s name am I going to make this work if I can’t even get a simple _rose bush_ to do what I tell it to!” Never mind that it was the first day. His head had become inflated from a rush of early success. It was no help that the adrenaline of renewed purpose from the morning had worn off, or that he was slick and overheated and humiliated by a plant of his own making.

He decided that he’d finally had enough and threw down his shovel. He stomped back toward his room, not paying attention as he went, and he almost stumbled on a thick root sticking out from under one of the orange trees. He caught himself, then hunched over to glare at the offending thing. In retribution, he gave it a swift, heavy kick. A fresh branch shot out of the spot his toe connected, straight upwards, slapping his face.

“Melitele’s fucking _tits_ , that hurt!” he bellowed, grappling at his face. He groaned, doubling over in a dance of pain and fumbling. He inhaled with a hiss, then quietly, “ _Fuck,”_ with extra feeling thrown in for good measure.

All at once, he uncurled, arms still half raised towards his face. His eyes lit up and his cheeks flushed a happy pink against the red line left by the branch. He gasped, staring into the empty air. “Melitele!” he said. At once he started running toward the altar, rambling to himself as he absorbed the sudden brilliant flash of inspiration.

“Of course! If _we’re_ gods, there are _other_ gods! Oh, you slow, brainless—w _itless—!_ Jaskier, you idiot, he told you outright! My shaken faith, why didn’t I think of that before! There’s a higher authority in the pantheon— _many_ higher gods, in fact, who can put him in his place!”

Footsteps echoed like drumbeats against the mosaic floor. He skipped around a corner, almost giddy. There was the adrenaline he needed, racing back to him! There’d be no paralyzing despair to follow, not when he had another plan in the mix.

He crashed into the altar room, scattering yellow tributes left and right as he shuffled into the center of the chamber. He dropped to his knees, bent his head, and folded his hands.

“Melitele,” he prayed, giving it as much gusto as he could muster. “Dear, sweet, merciful Melitele. I beg you to hear me. I am your devoted subject, Jaskier, bard of the Continent. Please, you must return me to the earth below—if not for my sake, for the sake of your people.”

He felt a light breeze and shot to his feet, opening his eyes. “Melitele?” he called, heart racing. But it was only an empty wind.

Jaskier doubled down.

He summoned sage and incense, burned offerings of roses and poetry. He made a little altar in his altar room. He prayed for two hours without moving a muscle. He stayed until he could no longer feel the needles pricking in his legs. When no answer came, he stretched his legs out and fell onto his back, moaning. “Fine then. Plan B.”

He still lay there on the tile, but he closed his eyes again, steepling his hands before his chin. “Lilvani, Goddess of the Moon,” he sang. “I am the bard, Jaskier. I have devoted many a ballad to the beauty of your great celestial body—both the big floating rock in the night sky and your own fine figure, with all befitting flattery. If you free me from this place, I shall dedicate every full moon to singing songs of your glory.”

He waited, cracking an eye to look around. When nothing stirred, he dropped his hands on his chest and sighed. “Perhaps a prayer before bed would be better timing. She’s probably asleep when the sun’s up. Asleep most phases of the _moon_ , no doubt. But who can deny Lilvani her beauty sleep when she awakens with such divine—oh forget it, idiot, no one’s listening. Save your words for someone who cares.”

 _Slap!_ Eyes closed and hands together again, it was time to try his luck. _“Loki,”_ he drawled, familiarly, as if by speaking the name, he might fling a friendly arm around the god’s shoulders. “My fellow man of mischief, it is I, Jaskier the meddler. Am I not an entertaining follower? There’s not much room for mischief in this place, and not many funny consequences for my actions. Return me to the world, drop me drunken in a tavern and set me loose, and I promise you an entertaining show to follow! I’m sure you’re starved for a scandal, now that I’m stuck here on my best behaviour.”

Once more, he waited and listened. When nothing came of it, he growled in frustration and hoisted himself to his feet. He thrust his arms in the air, reaching up, straining from toe to tip. “Fucking _Dana Meadbh the Eternal!_ You’re a friend of the spring and the harvest; how about a show of loyalty? It’s hard work, greening the world on your own. Let me out and take a break! I’ll do the work from now until _autumn,_ I don’t care! You call up whoever’s in charge up there, down there, around there, _every-fucking-where_ and get me home!”

He kicked a gold trinket across the floor. “Do none of you _hear me!”_ he roared.

“No, Jaskier, they don’t.”

Jaskier threw his head back and groaned. His shoulders sagged and he rolled his head over to look at the man in the corridor. It was evening.

“Fuck me,” he mumbled.

“Are you offering?” Love replied. His tone was light, but he looked nearly bored. He scratched his wrist in a sarcastic manner, levelling him with a meaningful look.

Jaskier’s bland expression was answer enough.

Love detached himself from the wall he’d been leaning against and entered the chamber, circling the mess of tributes. “An odd thing to find a god praying. This room is meant for you to _listen_ to prayers, not send them, though I do commend you on your originality. I suppose if I wanted to pray, I, too, would go to the holiest place I could find.”

“Eavesdropper,” Jaskier said. He was too tired to add the right cutting tone. “There are few things ruder than listening in on others’ prayers.”

Love picked up a daisy chain from among the trinkets, fiddling with it carelessly. “Forgive me. I’m unfamiliar with such a mortal etiquette. I’ve only ever been on the receiving end of prayers.”

Jaskier lurched over to the nearest wall and pressed his forehead against the cool surface. He absently thought about how he’d tracked mud through the halls, noticing his filthy boots. He didn’t care.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice scratchy from hours of trial. “Why does no one answer?”

“God can’t hear prayers from other gods. It doesn’t work that way.”

“You hear me,” Jaskier argued. Though it had been more of a conversation than a prayer.

Love tossed the daisy chain onto Jaskier’s messy head, appearing at his side. “The Wind carried your words to me. That is different. No god may enter the home of another with their thoughts or prayers. If they could, why would they send Hermes into the world to deliver their messages?”

Jaskier grunted, letting his head fall again.

Love patted his shoulder sympathetically. “They can’t,” he concluded, “plain and simple. They can only hear the prayers of mortals. You are more than mortal and the gods have no authority over you—though the hierarchy still exists. They can intercede on your earthy affairs should you begin to act outside your jurisdiction. However, they cannot interfere casually in my domain.”

Jaskier shrugged his hand away, at last leaning upright. He looked at Love. It was a horrible habit, always needing to look a person in the eye. He wanted a face to hate. Instead, he always found Geralt. He looked away again and thumped his head back onto the wall. He thumped it again: punishment for being stupid enough to look in the first place.

Love leaned against the wall to watch him continue his meditative thumping. “Even if someone tried to take you from me, you are bound by contract. They could do nothing.”

“Every contract has its flaws,” Jaskier said. He spoke from experience. “I’m a master of the seven liberal arts. For a wordsmith of my background, finding a loophole is second nature.”

“You should have made it first nature instead, seeing as it’s taking so long. Your song was vague. It was easy to twist around for my benefit. All your years of experience writing songs, and yet you have a few nasty habits that contribute to your troubles.”

Jaskier angled his head slightly. “Such as my habit of never naming the singer and subject?”

Love hesitated. It was the briefest of pauses, but it spoke volumes.

“I thought as much. When we first met, you reacted very strongly when I contradicted you about the lyrics. You were worried I was singing to someone else, weren’t you?”

“I’ve inserted myself into your vagaries,” Love asserted. “They belong to me.”

Jaskier turned to lean his back against the wall. It was his turn to speak confidently. “But they don’t, do they?” he asked. He ran a smooth hand through his soil- encrusted hair. “I told you that I was singing to a love I hoped to have. If I found that love, could they take me from you? Is that why you’ve confined me here alone?”

“I’ll draw you a bath. We’re having an early night tonight,” Love said. He began walking out of the altar room, taking deep strides.

Jaskier chased him, dogging his heels. “I have a profound ability to love. Give me a portrait of a fine beauty and I can moon for weeks before I see sense!” He rushed ahead of Love, then began jogging backwards, arms flung dramatically as he spoke. “Sing me a tragic poem wherein the heroine appears for a brief line and I shall conduct no less than five verses before my heart is healed from its wanting! Read me a story about the lonely undertaker in his caverns and I shall waste away waiting for him to come for me!”

“He’s not coming!” Love shouted. He pushed Jaskier’s arm aside as he stormed on. “He’s dead!”

Jaskier was red in the face as he hollered back. “That won’t deter me; you know it won’t! I’m a romantic fool who wants everything he cannot have—I always did, and I’ll break my heart every day over and over again because I always will! I can love without being loved in return, and that alone will sustain me! But I’ll find a way out, and I’ll find a true love anyway.”

Love grabbed his wrist and dragged him along through the long narrow halls. “Dream all you like. You’re making empty promises to yourself.”

Jaskier stumbled behind him. “I’ve made plenty of those,” he said. “Another wonderful human quality. The lies we tell ourselves sometimes become truths with enough effort. And I’d rather lie than live without hope.”

Love opened the bedroom door and ushered Jaskier inside. The bath was already there waiting. The air was saturated with the thick smell of lavender. Releasing Jaskier, he tugged off his torn- up doublet and carried it with him to the fireplace. He tossed the ruined article into the flames and stood with his back turned, letting Jaskier undress in peace. When he heard the splash, he twisted around again. Jaskier was in the bath, his boots hooked over the side. Love narrowed his eyes.

Jaskier looked back with a shrug, his bare shoulders poking up out of the foamy water. “They’re filthy. I’m a mess of mud enough on my own; I’m not going to make the water any worse by putting them in.”

“I told you already: you’re not leaving. There’s no point in keeping them.”

Jaskier reached over the side of the tub and grabbed a brush off the stool. “Here.” He tossed the brush at Love who caught it with quick hands. “Make yourself useful and get some of this mud off.”

Love cleared the stool of its brushes and sat upon it. He took Jaskier’s booted ankle in one hand, dipped the brush in the water with his other, and began scrubbing it clean. He scrubbed it hard, as if by scrubbing he could scrub the boot from the realm. “You’ve probably got blisters,” he mumbled.

Jaskier winced at the pressure and hid his face. It was true. The boots were now lined with many soft bits of moleskin in the places that rubbed. The first blisters had healed already, but the activity from the early morning had rubbed new ones in their place.

He ducked under the water, rinsing the mud from his hair and face. He rose, shaking his head. In doing so, he splashed Love in the face: another minor victory. Love tossed a bar of soap into the water, splashing him back, and the score was even again.

Jaskier washed himself as Love switched boots. He ran a comb thoroughly through his hair, tossing aside bits of leaves, petal, and burrs. He could not remember what he’d grown that _had_ burrs, but he’d made plenty of things grow that day. When there was not a tangle left, he oiled his hair and gave himself a final rinse. Love used a small towel to finish wiping off his boots.

“We’ll eat quickly,” Love said. He grabbed another towel and began drying Jaskier’s hair. “I intend to get my trade’s worth of the bargain. And no spoiling it by pinching me or prodding. You’ve worn my patience for this evening.”

“Because I referenced an old flame I have no memory of?” Jaskier replied.

Love pushed a larger towel to his chest as he stood in the draining tub. “That happens to be a large part of it, yes. I told you, I’m of a jealous nature.”

“And I’m in the habit of poking bears. We don’t make the most harmonious couple.” He wrapped the large towel around his waist, the smaller one plastered atop his head.

Love grabbed the smaller towel and wrung it out over the tub. He then yanked Jaskier’s arm up and began drying it. “You promised you’d be trying. I thought I’d enjoy the chase, wrongfully assuming you’d be playing coy, but here you are, stubbornly indifferent. Resentful, even.”

“Then why not stick one of your magical arrows up my ass and have done with it?” Jaskier challenged. He snatched the towel from him and began drying himself on his own.

“Because I made that promise about a proper courtship. I was hasty, and you were _very_ demanding with your terms.”

Water dripped inside his boots, but Jaskier circled the inside with the towel. It was damp, but not terrible. He rotated away from view and began to dry his lower half with the large towel. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Love rooting through the dresser drawers. When he returned, he held a silk sheet at arm’s length toward him.

“I’ll have a full set: shirt and trousers, thank you.”

Love shot him a look. “Would you rather sleep naked?” he asked.

Jaskier swiped the sheet.

Love snapped his fingers and the cart rolled into the room. He sat in his usual chair by the fire, hands braced on the arms. He rubbed his ankles against one another as he crossed his legs, then he folded his hands in his lap, waiting.

Wrapped firmly in his new sheet, Jaskier let the towel drop. “Does this remind you of those things they wore in those drawings? What, togas?” He dropped into his chair and a napkin unfolded itself in his lap. “Trying to make me look like Persephone?”

“It’s called a chiton, the one she wore. But no. I simply want you to wear something soft when you hold me tonight. I’m having the bed changed as well.”

The bed was stripping itself in the background, the dressings rearranging and folding off to the side. New sheets and covers flew from beneath the bed and began to tuck themselves neatly in place, the pillows plumping, and the curtains dropping.

The cart edged itself purposefully in front of Jaskier, laden with a light supper. An herby salad with a sprinkling of carrots, turnip, and nuts, drizzled with oil. After the day he had, he would’ve been glad for something more filling, but there was a basket of rolls in accompaniment, so he contented himself with his lot. Love really did mean to make short work of their meal.

Jaskier took his sweet, irritating time, staring down at his plate. He noticed that Love did not bother having a meal brought for himself, too eager to have the formalities disbanded. His foot tapped on the soft carpet. Despite his vestments of choice, his posture and impatient scowl was startlingly reminiscent of Geralt. Jaskier looked toward the mantle to avert his gaze.

Love looked as well. “What is that?” he asked. His tone lifted, his curiosity breaking through his moodiness.

“Something I _actually_ love,” Jaskier replied. He shoved a forkful of vegetables in his mouth preemptively, in case Love decided to start a conversation about it.

But Love didn’t. He merely rubbed his wrist and returned to scowling. “Fine. Love what you wish for now. I can wait. Enough time will pass and all those who would be my rivals will grow old and die, and I will be all that remains. You will wither away for loneliness or you will seek my comforts, and we both know which your nature calls you to choose. I will have you yet.”

Jaskier swallowed with a gulp of wine. He pointed the rim of his glass towards Love. “Yet … you will _lose_ me. You should always finish your sentences.” He took another sip.

“I had.”

“Then you left yourself open to vagary,” Jaskier said, airily. “I should think you’d have learned better than that from my example.”

Love huffed childishly in his chair. “Are you nearly done?” he asked.

“I’ll finish when I finish.”

Despite his best efforts, finish he did. He could swear the basket had plenty more rolls when he started. He hardly had time to wash his hands in the provided bowl when the cart wheeled itself away. He wiped his hands dry on his napkin and tossed it aside.

Love grabbed his waist and pulled him toward the bed. He whipped back the heavy curtains and covers before he slipped inside.

“Are you wearing that to bed?” Jaskier asked. Love was fully dressed as he leaned over the covers.

The next time Jaskier blinked, he was bare.

Jaskier covered his eyes. “Try again.”

“Very well.”

When Jaskier opened his eyes, Love was much the same, with the exception of a short sheet wrapped around his waist. He looked much like the drawings in the book of myths Jaskier had read. “Cute,” he grumbled. But it was better than nothing. Reluctantly, he started crawling in after him.

Love grimaced at the boots still on his feet. “You’d better not kick in your sleep with those on,” he warned. “I’ll kick you right back.”

“Shut up and turn around or you won’t have to wait for me to fall asleep for it to happen.”

Obediently, Love rolled over. “The arms now. I’ve been waiting.”

“You really want to spoil your reward, don’t you? Haven’t you ever heard that old advice about going to bed angry? Even _I_ don’t want to make a fuss about this, and I didn’t want to do it in the first place.”

Love twisted round to look at him. “You suggested it,” he said.

“It was the only decent thing I could think of to get what I wanted.”

Jaskier gave a sigh of defeat as he settled down on the pillows. Love raised the covers around them, then backed into Jaskier’s waiting arms. As promised, Jaskier propped his chin up on Love’s shoulder and nestled their heads together, holding him with a firm grip. He could feel the tension leave Love’s body with a long breath.

Jaskier wondered if this was how Geralt felt, all firm muscle and warmth. He reminded himself to be disgusted. It wasn’t hard. He imagined several muscular thugs he’d met in pubs all across the Continent with repulsive manners and faces alike. It helped create the illusion.

“Tell me why you were so dirty when I came home,” Love said, speaking gently at last. “You’re usually so put together.”

Jaskier closed his eyes, trying not to feel the stubble against his cheek he’d tried many times to ignore on another face, knowing he could not touch it. “I was working in the garden, making things grow. You left it rather ugly.”

“I’m sorry. I was in a hurry to get started. Didn’t want to bother with the details.”

Jaskier hummed. At least his voice was still that of a stranger’s. Talking definitely helped.

Love layered his arms over Jaskier’s. “Did you make that flower on the mantle?” he asked. “I haven’t seen the like before, and I’ve seen every kind, as you know.”

Love’s fingers stroked over Jaskier’s arms soothingly. Jaskier ignored it, seeing as the hands weren’t wandering. “I did,” he mumbled. “Now shut up and sleep.”

“What will you call it?”

He covered Love’s mouth with one hand. “Insomnia.”

Love kissed his palm and Jaskier wiped his hand on the covers in turn. Love chuckled. “Let’s say good night then. Do you remember how you promised me?”

Jaskier nodded. He felt Love’s smile against his cheek.

“Good night, my Jaskier,” he said, dreamily. Love held his arms around him tighter, leaning his head back to whisper the words in his ear.

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut. The night, he told himself, would not last forever.

“Good night, Love.”

Love tapped his hand. “Not quite. ‘Just as I shall,’ remember? Now, how did I wish you a good night, my Jaskier?”

Jaskier grit his teeth. He could hear the triumph in his voice.

“Good night,” he hissed. “My Love.”

“Tone, dear.”

Jaskier buried his face in Love’s shoulder, his blood broiling hot with rage. He braced himself there silently, gathering all his patience for the last hateful task of the night. When he was ready, he emerged, tucking his head sweetly back in place, as agreed. He took a steady breath. A poet was a fine actor. He could become anything, anyone. So he put a stranger in the bed in his place, hiding himself somewhere far away, but the sickeningly tender voice still reached him when he spoke.

“Good night,” Jaskier whispered. “My Love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is: the second chapter in the double dump. I was initially going to end it in some Geralt whump, but it got a bit long. So you'll have the pleasure of that next time instead. And there will be one more surprise next chapter. Something that has been a long time coming.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> PS: to the person I said I'd be adding drawings in the next chapter, I do mean the next chapter (as in, not in this batch, forgive any confusion). Drawings to previous chapters will be added later on. Maybe by next update, I dunno. Depends on what I'm doing. My father's been teaching me woodworking stuff lately in the workshop and I have some major mulching to do now that we've cut down the border hedges. But weep not, dear readers! Now that the zine's done, the updates ought to continue in the normal fashion to which you've grown accustomed.


	14. Conflicting Familiarities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, beginning notes contain warnings which may contain dramatic spoilers.
> 
> Suggestive content warning: mild manhandling in a flashback sequence between Jaskier and Geralt. Nothing too suggestive, really, but I know some of you might like to be prepared.
> 
> Violence warning: stoning toward the end.
> 
> 5123

Jaskier’s relief did not last long after the flowers were returned. He threw himself into practice afterwards, and with each failure, he became more and more frustrated. His goals were too much for him to keep up with. He tried not to let it show, told himself plenty of hypocritical encouragement that he didn’t actually listen to, mostly about growth being a process. The trouble was that he was too desperate to let it be a process. The sooner he could escape, the better. There was no wasting time. So, consequentially, his mood became bleak once more.

Love had taken notice. “You’ve become lonely again,” he said.

Jaskier stabbed at his dinner, his cheek propped up on the back of his hand. It was true, but that was hardly the main reason for his mood. “What of it?” he asked. He felt like instigating something against his better judgement. He was an animal in a cage, pacing. The energy had to go somewhere, and growing weeds only to tear them up was not a satisfactory outlet. He’d learned his lesson with the rosebushes and let them be. He was starting small again, working back up.

“My company is not enough to satisfy you, is it?” Love sighed and set his fork aside. He’d paid little attention to his food, watching Jaskier mope, unresponsive to their evening’s conversation. He’d had enough of it at last, it appeared. “Even as I shorten my hours away to please you, that isn’t enough.”

Jaskier snorted. “It was never to please me—I told you to leave me be.”

“Nevertheless,” he said, “you need a companion. You’re talking to your plants, my dear.”

More like shouting, much of the time. It was only when he grew too tired of shouting that he spoke softly to them, either venting or begging, imploring them to grow or telling them of all his troubles, things he’d read in books, or little observations to pass the time.

“It’s good for them. And I’m working,” Jaskier mumbled.

“Working far too hard.”

Jaskier tossed his fork and reached instead for his goblet of wine to press it against his forehead. It was nice and cool and it relieved his headache. He didn’t want to discuss this. Sooner or later, he knew Love would try something to stop him. It was obvious what he was doing. They both knew what it was all for, but he had hoped to progress further before then.

Love clapped his hands. “I know what: Spring needs the relief of the Summer! You cannot keep working forever. What if I brought it to you? It’s not as if it’s any use to anybody else now, considering the seasons. It’ll be awhile before Summer goes to work below.”

“The Wind is already an unwelcome companion. Why would I want Summer in addition to that?” Jaskier cracked an eye open to glare at him sarcastically.

“Because the Summer is sweeter, and I have no power over a god of my equal with no contract. You may rest assured that the Summer would be no spy of mine.”

Jaskier thought that, perhaps this was an opportunity. If a god came to visit and could leave freely, they might send a message for him to an authority. “Fine,” he agreed. “Bring me Summer if you like, but I won’t make a deal for it.”

“Fair. It was my idea.”

“And don’t expect me to jump for joy either. I’m much too tired.”

“You can jump later if you like. I’ll send the Wind out to find Summer tonight and by morning, we shall see if we don’t have a visitor.”

Jaskier rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Splendid,” he grumbled.

* * *

When Geralt woke the next day, it was later than usual. He rose from his bed well-rested: admittedly more so than he’d been in months. It had been a deep sleep brought on by the luxury of a soft bed, a night of excessive drink from his rather insistent and obliging new musician friends—drunk on fresh faces and spare coin—with a satisfied stomach, and the knowledge that the foot of the mountain was fast approaching. He sighed contentedly as he slipped out of the covers, just as shocked by his own optimistic awakening. The day was young, and it felt good: full of promise. There were a dozen problems before yesterday that had disappeared overnight along with the incriminating yellow of his eyes, and today when he would walk down into the tavern, he knew there would be no awkwardly concealed stares, no whispers, not even the salty smell of contempt from a single patron.

The smiling, he was not expecting. His expectations were flat, baseline decency. In fact, he expected to be almost invisible, but a few heads turned his way and there were smiles enough when he went to his breakfast. They recognized him from the performance last night, and people were quick to introduce themselves and force conversation on performers. A woman leaned back in her chair, talking to him across his empty table.

“It was a lovely song,” she said.

Geralt nodded with a polite grunt.

Another man, finishing his own breakfast, stopped by his table to steal a seat long enough to offer his own opinion. “Not quite what I’d anticipate from your rowdy lot, but an appreciated change in venue. It felt good to end the set with something melancholy. I slept like a baby after a lullaby!”

“I wasn’t with them,” Geralt clarified.

“Oh, weren’t you!” someone called.

Geralt grimaced as a young man leaned casually on his shoulder. The piper. The harpist collapsed into the seat on his other side, boxing him in, and the fiddler stood beside him and sat against the edge of the table. They crowded him, all smiles and friendliness. Nauseating closeness.

“Whereabouts are you travelling?” the fiddler asked.

The harpist nudged his side and tilted his head toward his companions. “The three of us decided to form a group after last night’s collaboration went over so well. We’re heading west to Hengfors. Actually, we were worried we missed you.”

“You should join our troupe!”

Geralt drained the leftover half of his mug quickly. “I’m”—he stifled a throat of gas—“heading northeast. I don’t travel with company.” In truth, he did not mind having company along, but he would take none under false pretenses, even as he’d indulged in a few short interactions the previous night. And he wanted no minstrels; one was more than enough for him. They were a boisterous breed and his tolerance was low. Besides, it wouldn’t do to show up to his reunion with Jaskier with three other musicians in tow. Jaskier might turn around and skulk off on principal. He needed every chance he could take to make things up, put every odd in his favor that he might be forgiven. He had a speech prepared, and he had impending doom on his side to tear down any walls built by stubbornness. All he needed now was to actually find him.

“Excuse me,” Geralt said. He left a coin by his plate and in turn left the minstrels and their protests behind. His bags over his shoulders, he paid his fee and went to the stables to collect Roach. Two days to the mountain. Maybe one. He was buzzing with energy after a good night’s sleep and ready to be on his way without distraction. He needed to go, _go!_

Roach was happily sucking on a peppermint as he packed up his gear, tying things once more to her saddlebags. She’d been fed, watered, and brushed, and her tack had been scrubbed clean. He left a tip with the stableman on his way out.

The main road was just as busy that morning as it had been when he arrived the previous day, with people coming and going and calling out over their carpets, booths, and tents. It was a lively market, even in the poor weather. The cities were still doing well, having larger stores of food and enough money to procure the things they needed. He tried not to think too hard about the corruption that lay beneath as he bought the last of his supplies. In times of crisis, the wealthy people in cities procured their goods through unethical means.

He noticed silently that the prices were not inflated at the sight of him. Despite spending less money than usual, he felt irresponsible for all the goods he amassed. To get this much supplies would normally cost a dear, heavy price, and it made him itch and want to pinch his purse strings tighter. He had to talk himself into purchasing his necessities.

He did allow himself one luxury purchase. Once more, upon visiting the pickler woman’s booth and being tempted into another sample of spiced apples, something caught his attention on the wind. He whipped his head to the right. A few booths down, there was another woman selling perfumes and scented oils. He quickly paid for a jar of apples and hurried down to the booth, Roach in tow. He was still clutching the heavy jar when he stopped before the array of small, glittering bottles. And right before him, in her hand, was a bottle of violet oil.

His chest heaved as he breathed in the scent. It felt tight. And _he_ felt unreasonably angry. He knew Jaskier would not be there, he _knew_ it was not the true scent of him—he’d hardly ever worn the damn scent in the first place—but it was the same oil. The bottle was the same as well, from the decorative cork top to the label pasted on the side. The flash of anger was gone and he was seized by the need to keep this token with him.

“How much is that?” he asked, indicating with a tip of his jar.

“One silver coin for the smaller bottles, two for the larger,” she answered.

Geralt did not hesitate to fish a silver coin from his purse. He’d spent less than usual, after all. The moment she handed him the bottle, he uncorked it and took a deep breath. The scent of sweet violet lingered a moment, then it was gone. It was one of the most unusual things.

“Every time you smell a violet, it’s the first time,” Jaskier’s voice echoed in his memory from long ago. There had been a little window box full of them at some inn or other, or perhaps on the sill of some cottage. He couldn’t remember the details. The point was, he’d kept smelling it, forgetting what it smelled like immediately after, and going in for a refresher. It had fascinated Jaskier, watching Geralt so distracted. As it turned out, it truly _was_ like smelling it for the first time for Geralt. Something about his mutation made it different. The scent was wiped away each time he raised the flower to his nose, yet, as soon as he smelled it, he remembered it anew. It was rather like leaving home every spring and returning to its familiar smell come winter, only for it to go unnoticed as he lived day to day. He’d felt the same when he opened the lute case and smelled the rosehips and chalk. But there was something more. They discovered that the smell of violets had a frightening side effect.

Jaskier had only worn the oil once, but it had been a memorable event. They’d had a hunt in the early morning. Geralt had come out of it fine, but Jaskier had fallen into a muddy, foul bog, and crawled out of it drenched through with slime and putrid muck leaking off him from every angle. They’d been on the road for almost a week straight, and that was the final straw. He marched to the nearest inn and ordered himself a bath and an exhaustive laundry service. The inn, being in a nicer town, provided oils with which to scent the bath. Jaskier had Geralt select for him while he did his best to rinse and comb out what grime he could before getting into the nice clean tub.

Geralt had chosen an oil at random when Jaskier protested. “At least pretend to smell it first!” he scolded, mud dripping from his bare arm as he sat on his stool. “You and your witcher senses—if you pour something that makes your nose wrinkle the next few days, you’ll only have yourself to blame. I don’t want to hear a word of complaint, understand? Remember the lemongrass incident? Love of Melitele, it isn’t too much to ask.”

So Geralt uncorked the bottle. He’d been surprised by how familiar it was. Violet. He kept sniffing it as the scent disappeared, and he’d become distracted by it. Enough time passed that Jaskier had managed to clean himself well enough when Geralt came to.

“Have you found one, or are you still sniffing? I’m surprised you took me so seriously.”

Geralt startled, not that anyone would notice. He blinked, lowering the bottle.

Jaskier smiled and plucked it from his fingers. “Ah, is that the one then? Let me see … oh, lovely! I don’t think I’ve met anyone pedaling violet in the past few years—that being said, I haven’t really been looking. Been making my way through the citruses. Maybe I ought to nick it on the way out, do you think?”

He poured himself several drops before plunging into the water. He emerged with a contented sigh, hair mopping his brow. Geralt stood nearby, idling. Jaskier handed him the bottle, his eyes closed and head resting back on the edge of the tub. “Here, you can put that back for me, if you’d be so kind,” he said.

And Geralt had obliged. He left the room shortly afterwards, feeling lightheaded, as if he’d been running. But he’d only been breathing a little too hard.

Not knowing it, Geralt had walked closer to Jaskier on the road that day. He’d been sniffing the air more often than he would admit, once more confused and drawn to the smell. Masked by a cloud of violet, Jaskier disappeared from one of his strongest senses. It was unnerving. He could hear Jaskier chattering beside him, could _see_ him and feel the heat from him and the shift in the air as he walked. But he couldn’t smell him for several moments at a time.

His nose kept angling towards him, trying to rectify the information his other senses told him to be true, that there was someone there. Never before had his senses been so at odds with one another. It made his mind foggy, and because of that, he was off, uncomfortable, and oddly in need of reassurance. It was frightening to have Jaskier just vanish out from under his nose—and in such a literal way. His brain was screaming at him, telling him this was some imposter: some dangerous doppler or changeling imitating his friend. The anxiety continued to build and build until at last it came to a head.

“—and my instructor scolded me for my messy pommel, but I always forget to simply turn my hand over. It’s a sloppy habit, but I used to rely more on full-arm movements like a slob. Of course, that was before I learned the value of—”

Jaskier gasped as Geralt shoved him against the rocky hillside, completely deaf to his ramblings. Geralt turned his head this way and that, opened his eyes wider to inspect them. He set his ear against Jaskier’s chest, listening to the startled thunder of his heartbeat. He used his every sense to tell his idiotic nose that this was, and always had been, the same Jaskier he’d set off with that morning.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, almost choking on the name as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “Ah, Geralt, tell me what you’re doing. What’s wrong?”

Geralt closed his eyes and grunted, fists clenched in Jaskier’s doublet. “It’s nothing,” he grumbled. Breathing the same air, he smelled the heavy violet, then it was gone again. His nose told him there was nothing there before him. He shook his head, snarling. It was overwhelming. A witcher’s sense of smell had a way of overpowering every other, and it was screaming at him, putting his every last nerve on edge.

“Ger—?”

Jaskier jerked upward as a nose suddenly thrust against his collarbone, under his open chemise. The air tickled as Geralt inhaled deeply, panting out against his skin. Jaskier’s hands shot up instinctively to Geralt’s sides and clung to his armour to push him away. But he didn’t. He simply held on tight as Geralt continued to breathe against him.

Jaskier leaned his head back, breathing heavily as he tried to clear his throat. “You alright? What—what’s going on, Geralt?” he asked. His voice was rough.

There. Beneath the soap and the oil, under the bucking of lye from the laundry, was the faintest hint of Jaskier. The abrupt shock had caused him to start sweating, and his scent came through. Geralt pressed harder against his skin, let his nose confirm that, yes, here he was. He sighed, the anxiety lifting at last.

When he pulled away, his cheek was wet with vapor. He’d been breathing hard, evidently, and his face had been braced against Jaskier’s bare skin for a while. He looked at Jaskier, his senses finally in order. His nose was soon empty again, but it was satisfied. It no longer shrieked about possible danger. His grip loosened.

Jaskier’s hands were still in his armour. He looked back at Geralt, his face flushed. His chest rose and fell slowly. “Geralt?”

Geralt stared a moment longer. His head was light and foggy, just as it had been back at the inn. Everything else was dulled, as if he were drunk. When he nuzzled against Jaskier’s neck this time, it was not to confirm his presence.

“You disappeared,” Geralt mumbled. “The oil. It’s like you aren’t there.”

Jaskier suppressed a small sound that Geralt might have heard and been surprised by another time, but he couldn’t hear a thing, focused as he was. He did not feel Jaskier’s grip tighten. He did not feel Jaskier push back against him, meeting him.

“You’re trembling,” Jaskier said.

Geralt took another long sniff at the juncture between his neck and hairline. “Adrenaline. My senses want me to believe you’re something strange. Something dangerous. Trying to ready me for a fight.”

“Well that explains things, clearly.”

Geralt scoffed. “Trying to find your scent, confirm that you’re you,” he explained. He was starting to come to when he noticed how close they’d become. He was crowding Jaskier against the rock, so close they were pressed together. At some point, his hands had travelled to Jaskier’s hips, clutching him.

He blinked, opening his eyes. He felt the way Jaskier’s knees pressed against the outside of his legs, squeezing. He could smell something else in his sweat, a spicy undercurrent of …

Geralt released him and turned away, readjusting himself. He mumbled an apology and returned to Roach’s side, took up her reins, and tried to force the moment to pass as rapidly as possible. His heart was beating faster than normal, and he did not want to address why. _It’s only a natural response to action_ , he thought to himself, the lingering smell teasing him. _There’s no meaning to it._

He watched over his shoulder as Jaskier did up his front laces for once in his life, rubbing his neck. “Don’t,” Geralt fumbled. “Don’t wear that again.”

Jaskier nodded, made a show of wiping his arms and chest with his handkerchief, trying to mop up the scent. “No violet,” he confirmed. “Duly noted.”

Jaskier took the rest of the day in stride, keeping his distance at Geralt’s request. Geralt stayed close to Roach, trying to let the smell of her coat enfold him, but the empty space across kept pulling at him, asking him to again confirm Jaskier’s identity. And again. And to press against him and scent his skin _again._

Jaskier rubbed his hands on his clothes, rubbed them together until they were hot and the oil of his skin rose to the surface. He held one out to Geralt, let him sink his nose against it and sigh. He grew tense during long stretches of time they were apart and the violets made a void. When Jaskier saw the muscle jump in his jaw, he would again offer Geralt his hand and let him take it awhile. He cupped his cheek with it, let Geralt hold it to him. He laid it gently against his mouth, felt his lips against his palm and the warm breath. There was something hesitant in Geralt’s demeanor every time Jaskier offered the innocent touch, but Jaskier always persuaded him.

They never spoke of it again, but the anxiety of that day came crashing back to him the moment he’d smelled the violet oil in the air. With a fresh breath of it, he remembered the heat of Jaskier’s skin against him. He remembered the smell of his sweat as he pressed to his neck. He remembered the hope he’d crushed down and buried the moment Jaskier’s arousal penetrated his senses. But it had only been arousal, he’d told himself over and over the following nights. And even if it was truly for Geralt, that alone would not satisfy him. It was easier to believe it had just been the closeness, the adrenaline, than a true reaction. But even so, he indulged in that little bottle of oil and the memories it brought him. He was lonelier for it, but it was a pain he could withstand in return for the ghost of Jaskier by his side.

He swore to himself if they ever came together again, he’d say everything that needed saying. Maybe Jaskier would bathe in the oil once more. Next time, he’d do much more to wipe the scent away, if Jaskier let him. It was a dangerous rabbit hole, such thinking. He quickly packed the oil and his apples, trying to clear his head and return to the present. Before he could even think of such things, he had to find Yennefer and get her to examine the dandelions. What happened next came after. If it had any chance of coming at all.

Geralt adjusted his cloak. It was chilly, even for late morning. It had been no matter where he went. He might be able to better withstand the current blight if it was at least warmer, but it was still winter everywhere. It felt colder now that the world lacked many a warm color. There was red, but the sunlight was a cold white. The red did little to help.

“Well, look who’s still around!”

Geralt glanced up the market road and spotted the small troupe leaning away from one of the stands, looking right back. They waved to him and came dancing down the road his direction. One of them was juggling pears as he came. The other was busy shoving their purchases into his bag.

The harpist popped up beside him, clapping his shoulder. “Well!” he cried. “Have you lingered in the market, hoping to catch us on our way out, thoughts of reconsideration dancing in your head?”

Geralt smiled in spite of himself. “No. There’s someone I need to meet with. I don’t have time to go travelling at will.”

“More’s the pity. I was hoping for another string-player. Then we could bump the piper.”

The piper looked up from his bag, scowling. “I round out the set. The average audience can’t tell the difference between one stringed instrument and the other. And besides, _I_ have the food supplies.”

“All but these!” The fiddler juggled his pears higher, grinning ear to ear.

The piper rolled his eyes. “Exactly how long do you think you can live off of _four_ pears?”

“Long enough to wrestle the bag from you and nip out of town!”

The fiddler caught the pears and shoved them all into one arm, then began to chase the piper in jest, ducking and skipping around. The piper hid behind Geralt and they circled him on either side, popping out behind his back and around his shoulder, laughing and teasing. Geralt stood stiff and raised his arms out of the way. They behaved like small children, and he’d met plenty of those in villages, running wild and playing around him. These musicians were fairly young, a little younger than Jaskier had been when they first met. Had they come from wealthier backgrounds, they might be in universities, studying music. Their songs had been entertaining, but mediocre. He chuckled, thinking that Jaskier had managed to teach him enough to have an opinion, but his companions mistook his amusement as a reaction to their game of chase.

“Save the pears! Catch!”

Geralt caught them easily enough as the fiddler dumped them into his arms before rounding on the piper. The harpist left them to tussle with one another, then he took a pear from Geralt’s hand and munched it. “How childish,” he observed. He had a sprinkling of fuzz above his upper lip to highlight his most superior age. He stroked it with one finger with practiced ease. Geralt said nothing, but his expression told all.

The harpist took the rest of the pears and packed them in a bag of his own, but he kept one out, holding it before Geralt. “Have one. As thanks for playing along last night,” he said.

Geralt shook his head and refused. “The times being what they are, I can’t accept it. Fresh fruit is a commodity. I saw the prices around the market, and I know what you’ve spent.”

“Then let’s trade. I’d rather have an apple any day of the week, if you’ve got one.” He’d already tossed back the flap of Jaskier’s bag before Geralt could stop him. The harpist gasped and dropped his pear. He brushed his fingers against the soft golden heads of the dandelions. “What—?”

Geralt lurched forward and grabbed his hand. He opened his mouth to explain. Behind him, he heard one of the other two exclaim something so loudly, it marked him as the singer of the group through sheer lung capacity. Geralt’s blood turned cold as all eyes in the market turned back towards him.

“How can you have this?” the harpist asked.

“I—”

He plucked one of the dandelions free of its stem and held it out, eyes wide and white with shock. The dandelion stem broke away. A sticky, white milk leaked from it, and the smell filled the air, imperceptible to all others. The sight of it was like that of a gaping wound, dripping blood. The very thing that promised to lead him to Jaskier, to solving the blight, that he’d sunned and watered and protected, bleeding out in front of him, doomed to die.

Something in Geralt snapped.

As he reached forward to take back the dandelion, his cloak opened wide. The white sunlight flashed against his silver medallion. It bounced against his chest, the wolf’s eyes blaring bright against his dark clothes. The harpist reeled back from Geralt’s grasp, even as the dandelion tore from his grip.

“It’s a witcher!” he shouted.

Geralt clutched the dandelion and whirled around, quickly taking stock of the crowd. They cried out in recognition and fear. He wrapped his cloak around his arm, knowing what came next. He couldn’t let it trip him up.

The first stone came the second he touched Roach’s saddle. He leapt onto her back and gave her side a firm squeeze to get going as the people shouted and began running after him. He heard accusations of black magic being spat from behind, and the words ‘Blaviken’ and ‘butcher’ succeeded them. The bags and saddle protected much of Roach, and he bent low over her neck, raising one arm to shield her eyes as the stones continued to rain down. There’s a lull before a mob ever forms in a town: a moment before the shock wears off and people leap into action. When those further up the street do not yet know what goes on, he always has a brief chance to escape. He knew. He’d run from them before.

It was a hard, fast ride to get out of town, but word travels quickly and stones travel far from a strong arm. There was something warm and wet against his cheek, rolling down, but he didn’t stop to wipe it away until the houses turned to the shed-like homes in the slums of the city, then to the scattered farmlands. He and Roach slept in a shallow thicket that night, hidden away from any possible travellers. He checked her over for any signs of damage, felt relief flood him when she turned up fine. He spent an hour stroking her, talking a lot of nonsense. It was not for her benefit.

The next town he came upon, the one at last beneath the foot of the mountain, he hid beneath his hood. He was sure to tuck his medallion underneath his armour. When he went around asking after the sorceress, he heard plenty of gossip about a different witch—‘No, it was a _witcher!’_ someone whispered with a hiss—that had incited a frenzy in the city: seducing women and cursing an old blind man with arthritis, making honest men drunk, and stealing all the color from the world.

He tugged his hood lower and mumbled with false fascination at each recounting. This time, he did not enter the inn. He continued up the mountain instead, alone, without a word of Yennefer. The other gossip drowned out all news, but Borch’s nest lay at the peak, and he would know where she might be found. Three days. With luck, she would be there, or she would leave word. Three days and he might have answers. Three days and he might’ve arrived with every dandelion intact.

Geralt traced the trimmed stem, lacking its blossom. It was an empty mark against the others. There were plenty left, but he could not help feeling he’d failed them all by losing one. They’d been entrusted to him; he’d wanted to keep them safe.

The mangled dandelion bloom was tucked in among them beside its stem, waiting to die. He was more determined than ever to reach the peak and find Yennefer. He hoped the dandelion could wait until then. He silently prayed it would last long enough to return to Jaskier alive. Let it be his first apology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Went for a classic brown ink illustration. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Jaskier's ramble is about fencing technique. My instructor used to correct me on this all the time since I never kept my pommel in my wrist. However, I got better, though I do have to keep myself in check now and then. My saber technique is my best, and I take full advantage of people's messy guards. Here's a tip: always go for the wrist! People suck at guarding their wrists and it's so easy to flick under and slice there for a quick bout. It goes both ways though, so if you can't defend your wrist, I don't recommend a Hungarian hold.
> 
> I promised Geralt whump, but the slightly suggestive scenting scene caught me by surprise. Shit happens when you write, you know? Anyway, fun fact! Violets have ionone in them, and when you smell the flowers, they block off the scent receptors, temporarily disabling your sense of smell. Violets can only be smelled for a few seconds at a time because of this, and it always hits like a new scent because of this. I wanted to see how that might affect witchers, specifically Geralt and his funky mutations. I played around with it a little and made it so that the effects were stronger for him, driving his instincts absolutely bonkers.
> 
> For unusual announcements about this fic, please consult my tumblr news page. I will repost the link in the end notes of any chapter if an announcement is made so you can go and look. Like today! There's a bit of news, so give it a click!  
> https://rebrandedbard.tumblr.com/


	15. TERTIARY INTERMISSON - MOCK-UP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me, these visual intermissions are becoming a three-chapter habit. I hope none of you mind. Here's a mock-up of how I'd format the story as a book. Wouldn't it be wonderful if you could customize Ao3 so nicely?

BONUS DOODLE:

While working on the timeline, I hid the top layer of Geralt's hair and this gem came about.

I've been saving it for when y'all might need a good laugh. He's been _shaved! ~~(it looks kinda nice tho ngl)~~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope none of you got too excited by a double update. This is why it's important to read the chapter titles. At least you can look forward to three more chapters without any further interruptions; I'm nothing if not habitual. This is probably the last intermission, I think.
> 
> EDIT:
> 
> I found two mistakes dating all the way back to the first four pages thanks to these mock ups. I'll definitely be editing the story before I make it all up into a PDF.
> 
> EDIT 05/09/2020:
> 
> Upon request, I have opened a bandcamp. I'll only be putting The Sorrowful Spring up for now. I'll add the other tracks as we go. Ultimately, when this is finished, I'll put the songs together in an album for you guys. It'll be pretty short. I'll get around to Jaskier's first song eventually, but for now I'm still mulling over the title (procrastinating).
> 
> https://penncorner.bandcamp.com/track/the-sorrowful-spring
> 
> I'll make a better album cover later, please ignore it for now.


	16. Concerning a Summer Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10,290

Jaskier’s breath caught in his hollow, dry throat at the sight of the child curled up on the cool, tall grass at Love’s feet. There were round clusters of yellow flowers in a clean wreath around her head, a stark contrast to her pale, dirty face. Even in sleep, she looked tired. No, weary. _Is she thinner?_ Jaskier thought _._ She had always been a thin child, but his princess had no business looking so _travel-thinned_ and hungry. How much was his own worry-filled imagining—if this sight was true, not just an illusory horror. He rushed down beside her on his knees and wrapped her in his arms, pulling her close to his chest defensively as he stared, mouth agape, at their smiling host.

In his embrace, Ciri reeked of the road and crisp tree sap.

“Why is she here?” Jaskier whispered, clutching her. His heart beat faster than it had the night he’d awoken in this place, afraid to see the fear in Ciri’s eyes when they opened, knowing what questions would come, and what little comfort he’d be able to offer when they did.

“As promised, I have brought you the daughter of Winter and Spring: Summer.”

Jaskier hardly blinked, unbelieving as he continued to gape at Love. He felt her: the weight and the warmth of her pressed against him. But why _her?_ What fate was this? What lie? “Where did you find her?” he asked, but he wanted to ask so much more.

One little sentence and Love told a long, impossible tale. It was too much.

“In the woods somewhere,” Love said vaguely, waving his hand. “That seems to be the place to find people these days. I see a pattern emerging. She was easy enough for the Wind to find; her name is the same as it was at birth.”

Jaskier felt something crick in his neck as he lowered his head. He’d been sleeping poorly these few days. He was tired, sore, and his vision was bleary as he looked down at Ciri’s resting eyes. He was so indescribably frightened, but guiltily, so _relieved_ to see her familiar face. It had been so long since he’d seen her last. She was so human, a glimpse back at his earthly home. His stomach twisted, chest restricted, his heart a flurry of messy emotion that would make for a terrible poem full of rhymes that would be all too inappropriate for any one of them, given the seriousness of the situation. They all bubbled to the surface in confused tears that spilled down of their own accord.

One tear dropped onto Ciri’s cheek, leaving a clean trail against the dirt. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt and chuckled, then choked on the sound. This was no time for laughter. He was done laughing at the absurd. Jaskier pulled Ciri to the crook of his shoulder, a hand to the back of her head, and sobbed quietly with his face tucked close against her. He held her like a lifeline and let one last tear fall. Everything, absolutely everything was too much, and there was not a moment’s respite. He was exhausted—and how many times had that word come to mind recently? Now, he was even too tired to cry.

Ciri stirred, waking. She mumbled, “Oranges …” with a curious tone and opened her eyes. Jaskier pulled back and smiled weakly at her. She opened her eyes wider, taking him in, then she flung her arms around his neck and choked him with her embrace. “Jaskier!” she shouted painfully by his ear. She gripped him in a bearhug so tight, he felt her arms trembling with the effort. She twisted him quickly—left, right, left—then with a final squeeze, she dropped to look at him properly.

“You found me,” she said. Her face was bright and had a healthy pink flush, as if the miles of fear and aching were gone at the sight of him. She reached up and ran her hands over his forehead, brushing his hair neatly in place, then poking and prodding at his cheeks and examining him. “You’ve gotten thin,” she added, disapprovingly.

“You’re one to talk; who’s been feeding you, child? You’re a twig!” Jaskier laughed and hugged her again, rubbing her back with a hand. He kept his tone light, playful. He was determined to do what he could to make the forthcoming introduction easier. There would be no avoiding what was coming, but he wouldn’t let Ciri be afraid, no matter what. Nothing would harm her as long as there was air in his lungs. His fingers dug a little harder into the thick fabric of her cloaked shoulder. In Geralt’s absence, it was his duty protect her. He glared up at Love from her turned back, let his eyes tell his every intention.

“We’ll soon fix that,” Love said, voice full of mirth. But his eyes were cold, looking back down at Jaskier. His words held dual meaning; one for each recipient, and quite contradictory in their nature. “Breakfast is already prepared for you, my dear.”

Ciri turned around until she spotted Love. She stared at his white hair and strangely-colored eyes. Odd: they were not yellow now, but then so much of the world was missing the color. The woods had once been filled with green and yellow pine and the colors had littered the ground beneath her running feet, but it had all been swept away in the night while she lay sleeping. She thought it had been her own magic, for Mousesack once told her that all magic came at a price, and wondered if the use of it had stolen the color from her eyes, but so many people had whispered in fear that she knew she had not been the only one affected. She doubted if she could force the world to pay the price of her magic. The eyes now staring back at her were a pale sort of red, but they still looked as cat-like as Jaskier described. It was her witcher, she thought.

Then, she reached one hand out, took a step to meet him. “G—”

Jaskier tugged her back, buried her lips against his shoulder to silence her. “She’ll eat when she’s ready,” Jaskier said quickly. “I’m sure she’ll have questions first. I know her, and I know what she’s like when she’s curious. She won’t let it go until she has the whole story, and she’ll want to know all about you, _Cupid.”_ He spoke his name slowly, let Ciri hear so there could be no mistake. She was clever. He hoped she understood he meant it not as a jest, not as an endearment, but as truth.

“Jaskier, what are you doing?” Ciri mumbled, muffled against his furry cloak.

Love was still smiling as he watched the two of them, so affectionate with one another. “So you’ve already met,” he noted. “I _am_ surprised.”

Ciri broke free of Jaskier’s hold. She stepped out of reach and regarded Love with an expression of doubt. “He didn’t tell you?” Her voice was small, as if she didn’t want to hear the answer.

“Tell me what?”

“About the summer visits in Cintra.”

“Ciri, be still,” Jaskier hissed. He stood and pulled her to his side, his hands on her shoulders. His heart fluttered in his chest like the frightened wings of a caged lark. Sweat prickled to the surface of his skin, the hairs standing upright on the back of his neck. He had to mediate whatever came next. Above all else, there could be no talk of Geralt. It was an impossible task, but he had to try.

Love cocked his head. “Summer visits? You know your identity, child?”

Ciri’s brow furrowed. She looked at him with confusion, but Love continued before she could ask after his meaning.

“Do you possess a magic of some kind?” Love pressed, kneeling down to observe her. “Perhaps you see memories of your past life? How extraordinary!”

She stepped back, uncomfortable, unsure how to react to the unexpected enthusiasm.

Love took up her hand, prattling on. “Rest assured, I will not hold your alternate parentage against you, for you are more the product of Jaskier in my eyes.”

Now that _did_ spark a reaction. “I don’t understand. What’s wrong with my parents that you should hold anything against them?” she asked. From Jaskier’s stories, she would have thought Geralt had a decent opinion of them at the very least, considering what he’d done for them in that famous ballad, fighting to protect them against the violent, spurned suitors.

“Not your earthly parents, dear. Your _god_ father.”

“You _are_ my godfather,” she persisted. If that was the proper term. She supposed it must be, for him to use it. Her grandmother had been reluctant to tell her anything regarding the Law of Surprise, let alone what one was to call a guardian gained through it.

Love lit up at once. He dropped Ciri’s hands and bounded to his feet, positively beaming. “What a flattering child! See, Jaskier? She understands how things ought to be at once.”

“I don’t understand _anything_. What are you talking about?”

“We’re engaged. Courting, really, but the understanding is there.”

Ciri looked between them. “I thought as much from the songs and the stories, but I’m still surprised.” Her gaze lingered on Jaskier, who looked more than a little angry, and much paler than she remembered. His was not the lovestruck, moon-eyed poet she’d been expecting.

“Songs?” Love squatted down again, hugging his knees. “What songs do you mean?”

“All of them. The way he sings about your golden eyes and hair like starlight—”

Jaskier clamped a hand over her mouth. “That’s enough Ciri,” he said. This conversation was venturing into very dangerous territory.

Something flashed in Love’s eyes. “A song about a dream lover?” he asked, voice carefully friendly. “Or is it …” Love leaned closer, his smile sickeningly sweet and innocent. “Tell me, child: do you recognize my face?”

Ciri sensed the danger in Jaskier’s sudden grip. She titled her head to the side, glancing up at him. He was staring down at her, features tense. She watched as he subtly shook his head, just a fraction of a motion, hardly there at all.

She looked back at Love and grinned cheekily behind her hand. “You look like an old painting that used to hang in the castle,” she said. She raised her hand, rolling her wrist with exaggerated dramatism. “Jaskier would write songs and poems about the figure in it every day for _weeks_ on end after it arrived. The kitchen boys used to throw things at him and tease him about it. He’s a romantic. Even _I_ got tired of it eventually.”

The danger passed. Love sighed and smiled again, genuinely. “Ah, how like Pygmalion. I should like to hear the songs sometime.”

“I’m sure he’d be happy to sing them, but he might be too shy now that you’re here. I wouldn’t press.” Ciri felt the grip in her shoulder loosen. She patted the back of Jaskier’s hand and held it comfortingly. She understood. Had she not met such a creature before, wearing the face of Mousesack? “Forgive me,” she said, “but I never learned the name of the man in the portrait. Would you be so kind as to make an introduction?”

Love shook his head as he straightened upright once more. “I’m afraid I’m not the original subject. This appearance is one I’ve adopted to suit Jaskier’s tastes,” he explained. He offered her a dismissive shrug.

“Oh,” Ciri replied. Several different expressions flashed across her face before she put up a mask of indifference. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said, curtseying in her best courtly manner.

“Likewise.” He bowed. “Let us become good friends. I hope you will soften Jaskier’s heart with your company.”

“His heart is always soft toward me.” She clasped her hands together in front, standing in that rehearsed manner befitting a princess. It was, she’d found, the best way to deal with strangers and their hidden politics.

Love held out the crook of his arm. “Come, child,” he said. “Your breakfast grows cold, and I must soon be off. Perhaps we might talk more this evening when I return—recount a few stories of Jaskier’s exploits? In the meantime, you must do your best to entertain Jaskier with your charming company.”

“Certainly,” she replied, taking his arm. As Love guided her and boasted airily about the many amenities at her disposal in the temple, she turned to look back at Jaskier. He smiled, though wretched and obviously in need of rest. He raised a finger to his lips and turned his fist in the corner, tossing the key, as he pointed toward Love. She nodded. It was not the time for explanations while the mimic was around. But she knew that Jaskier was himself with an unshakeable certainty. Anyone can put on a man’s face and pretend to be the real thing, but nobody in the world smelled so fondly of Cintran orange blossoms and sunshine.

When Love had gone and Ciri had had her breakfast—(shoveled rather ravenously between her teeth, it must be admitted)—the time had come for answers. Ciri flopped herself comfortably in the chair that, until now, had been reserved for Love’s exclusive use. It made Jaskier smile to see another sitting there, welcomed company for a change.

She rolled over onto her knees, looking around from over the back of the chair at everything Jaskier’s room had to offer. She hadn’t allowed herself a good look, being too invested in her breakfast and the task of inventing safe responses to Love’s conversation. “Is that stained glass? It must get awfully hot in here with all these windows. Lovely though,” she mumbled. She was speaking more to herself than to him, thinking aloud. Soon enough, she turned back around and sat at attention. “Where are we, Jaskier?” Ciri asked at last. “Who is that man with the white hair? I thought he’d be the White Wolf, since he looks like your songs and stories, and he’s with _you_ like he would be on your travels. I thought … but never mind what I thought—how did I get here? Are we in trouble?”

Delicately as he could, Jaskier explained all. He told her about the mountain venture, skipping over the specifics that led to their separation, about the song in the woods and the Wind that whisked him away to Love’s realm, and he told her about Love. From the stacks of books that surrounded his chair, he retrieved a small pile. He opened the pages to show her a number of myths recounting Love’s story, and that of Hades and his goddess of spring. She crossed over to squeeze beside him in the chair and look through the stories together.

“That seemed to be the last incarnation of us, so far as I can tell: Persephone and Cupid. Or Eros. I’m not sure which name is correct.” He closed the book and opened one of his own: a little leather-bound notebook. In it, he had written the details of Love’s own recounting. There were the rules that bound the gods and fae, the lore of gods rising to power, and the details of his own birth.

Ciri watched, her cheek on his shoulder as Jaskier fetched a pencil from the hollow of the notebook’s spine and added Ciri’s own recent revelation under the title Summer. Beneath it, he wrote: _“Child of Winter and Spring.”_

“Does that mean Geralt?” Ciri asked, her fingernail pressed against the word Winter on the page.

Jaskier’s hand stalled with an awkward mark. He’d had the thought the moment Love had said it, but he’d been too rushed to mull on it. Somehow, hearing it from Ciri’s lips made it seem more real, and all the more surprising, coming from someone so practical.

“Love killed Winter as a boy, he claims. Both Geralt and your birth father are older than me—they’ve very much _lived_ through their boyhoods—so I can only guess he meant it poetically: that Winter creates a blank canvas for the Spring to flourish, which allows for Summer growth and Autumnal harvest. You know: songy, lyrical things.”

“So do you think he meant Winter was my father in another life?”

“Who can say.” Jaskier looked at her with a funny sort of expression, a bit between incredulity and admiration. “You’re remarkably detached from all this. Aren’t you going to deny any of it or have a moment of hesitation? A short existential drama?”

“No,” Ciri replied. “I’ve already been through a lot these past few weeks. So many strange things have happened, I’m willing to believe anything within reason, and being a god seems as reasonable as everything else. It would explain a few things pretty well, actually: the screaming thing, for instance.”

“Ah, yes, well your mother had that screaming”—he flapped a hand—“magic blast thing. Big blast of knock-away tornado screeching stuff. There’s probably a better word for it.”

“If there is, I don’t know it.”

Ciri slipped down from the chair, sinking until she was sat on the floor, leaning against Jaskier’s legs. She hummed, staring at nothing as she thought. “Does that make me a god or a demigod? In those books they’re gods, but are we more like mortal spirits? We grow and we bleed, we need to eat and other mortal things. Where is the line drawn? And does that mean my parents were Summer gods or were they human? My father was cursed, but what about my mother? Do you think that has anything to do with it?”

Jaskier closed his notebook. He leaned back and pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “I think,” he began, voice breaking pitch. “I _think_ we’re mortal until we, ‘come into power,’ as he phrased it. Until people start praying to us. Something like that. We’re predestined to fill the role when needed—if needed.” He paused, looking out from under his hand. “Oh, Geralt’s going to hate hearing that, whether he’s Winter or not. Doubly so if he _is_.”

“But good for you: a very lyrical addition. The White Wolf, now the Winter witcher,” she said, then she repeated it experimentally. “White Wolf Winter witcher. White Wolf Winter wintcher—oh, that’s hard to say. Try it, Jaskier.”

“Winter wits—no, no, what are you _doing?_ This isn’t the time for tongue twisters and games.” Jaskier sat upright in his seat, gaping down at her incredulously. “Pace back: I’ve just told you we’re god-things and you’re making jokes. Aren’t you worried at all? Even a little bit afraid?”

“I’m a little scared,” she admitted, “but not as scared as I was last night. Last night I was down on the Continent, searching blindly for Geralt, all the while being chased by men who wanted me dead. Today I’m up in a strange realm with a friend and a man who wants to woo you by any means, and he’d never be able to if he laid a finger on me. Not that he could. You’d never let him.”

Jaskier paled at her words, but Ciri gave him no time to ask questions. She turned and plopped her arms on his knees, resting her smiling face up on them. She really looked as though she believed everything would be alright. “For now, this is probably the safest place for me to be where I won’t be hunted. I don’t mind waiting with you if Geralt is coming—and he has to come, with both of us here. People linked by destiny will always find each other.”

Jaskier blinked. For just an instant, his anxieties vanished in full. He sighed and closed his eyes. Then, he smiled, running a hand through Ciri’s tangled hair. “Right. Then we’d better get ready for him. First things first: let’s get you in a tub and comb out these knots of yours, then I think we’ll see about procuring some salve for those cuts.”

Ciri was delighted to have a nice warm bath. Jaskier filled it with orange blossom at her request, then left her alone while he fell to searching his drawers for something suitable for her to wear. A drawer opened itself for him, and he found a selection of lovely dresses fit for any princess. He pulled out a pretty green dress to show Ciri, but she shook her head over the side of the porcelain tub.

“I want trousers,” she said.

“Trousers?”

“Yes. I can’t tell you how many times my dress has caught on something or gotten soaked while I was on the run. Dresses aren’t practical; they’re heavy and too hot under my cloak. If we need to run, I want something I can run in.”

He folded up the dress and returned it to the drawer, apologetically. He asked and waited. It took a moment, but the drawer opened again, now sporting a selection of fine trousers. The delay made Jaskier wonder if the things he usually requested were already waiting for him to call, that the request for trousers for the princess had come as a surprise, and therefore had not been ready. It was a curious thing and he would make note of it in his book. The house was a fascinating place and he would enjoy analyzing its magic sometime with someone who knew more about it. However, he wasn’t sure how practical the change was.

The trousers were just as decorative as the dresses, made of all the same material, as if the dresses had simply been remade in their shape. He picked up the green pair on top and saw the sides now done up with lace and pearls, just as the hem of the dress had been, and there was a shirt folded beneath with ruffles made of the same pale green material of the underskirt. He chuckled as he set the articles aside on the chest by the bed. The drawer had thoughtfully supplied the smallclothes as well, and he placed everything in order. That done, he set to the task of cleaning her muddy boots.

Ciri was wearing a hat of bubbles when he returned, and was just in the midst of applying a sprawling beard. He snorted and shook his head, undefinably fond. She grinned like a loon and pasted on a mustache. Jaskier took a deep breath and blew the bubbles off her face.

“You’re a terrible barber,” Ciri complained lightheartedly as she removed the mustache from her brow, beard still half intact.

“Good thing I’m a bard.” He scraped a pebble from her tread and continued to brush the bottom of the boot.

Ciri watched him work, combing her hair. At some point, she stopped, resting her arms on the side, comb dangling in her hand. “Have you got any other shoes here?” she asked. “Those aren’t mine, and they don’t really fit right.” Her smile was less broad as she looked at the boots in his hand.

Something twitched in Jaskier’s cheek. Ciri had been so relieved to take her boots off when she got into the tub—he had seen the marks of blisters, new and old, and the bruises left behind from wearing ill-fitting boots. But the old stories about being trapped in Faerie after losing one’s boots compelled him to hold onto whatever pair she arrived in, however ill-fitting. He opened his mouth to make his argument, but closed it. There was something in Ciri’s eyes: a discomfort that went beyond complaints of fit. There was a history there.

Jaskier put up his most winning smile. “There are enough shoes here to dress a ballroom of stocking feet!” he replied.

Ciri lay back in the tub, features washed with relief. “Thank you. I’d rather not see those boots again if I can help it.”

“Will you tell me about it?” Jaskier asked. “After you’re dressed and we have some lunch, I have a few questions about what’s happened to you. You mentioned running, being chased—searching for Geralt. Did you run away from home?”

Ciri’s eyes were wide, stern and shocked. “Do you not know? About Nilfgaard? And what befell Cintra?”

Her tone surprised him and his hands stalled on the brush. Cautiously, he looked at her, then he offered a towel.

“And what,” he asked, “exactly _befell_ Cintra?”

Jaskier buried the boots, caged them under a thick pile of roots he conjured for the purpose beneath one of the trees in the field. He’d wrapped them in his own travelling clothes so they might be ready when the time came, and with the hope that they’d be safe, guarded by something of his own making. It was the best compromise he could think of, guarding their exit while keeping the boots out of sight for Ciri’s sake. If things went as planned, they would not be buried for long. The roots had come easily. Soon, he felt, would the rest of his conjuring. After a night’s sleep, however poor, he’d seen the practicality of taking simple steps, making smaller goals. And he was no longer struggling for his own sake. Nor was he struggling alone.

Today, nevertheless, would not be a day to build on that shiny new philosophy.

Jaskier slowly lowered himself on his knees, stretched out, then lay prostrate on the carpet in the middle of the room, his face in the gathered fur of his cloak. He marked his position with a long, hearty groan. Was it shock that made Ciri so indifferent to their circumstances? If so, he was sure he was riding the waves of his own, high and low, and it was making him sick when he took a moment to rest. He looked forward to some glimmering hypothetical horizon when all the stress disappeared and he could finally be at peace awhile, preferably in some half-decent, half-run-down inn somewhere with firm, dipping mattresses and sour ale. A normal, mediocre at best, run- of- the- mill place to rest his bones and strum a tune or two to a drunken crowd and be off again on his feet during the earliest of the ungodly hours of morning. What a life!

A finger poked his head. Jaskier raised himself out of the pillowed cloth and rolled his eyes up to meet Ciri’s concerned gaze.

“You feeling alright? Apart from … well, everything else.”

Jaskier crossed his arms and rested on them, offering her an apologetic smile. “It’s been a rather turbulent time for me: a lot of ups, downs, and even a few sideways experiences. I’m fluctuating between extremes. Forgive me if I just … take a moment to adjust. I need a few minutes of doing nothing in silence.” So saying, he buried his face once again. “On the floor,” he said, muffled. He pointed a finger against the carpet. “Right here.” Then he let his hand go limp and said nothing more.

Ciri sat beside him, watching to see if he might move again. After a bit of watching and waiting, Jaskier heard her rustling. Then he grunted, the wind knocked out of his lungs as a heavy weight flopped over him. Ciri had sprawled down perpendicular across his back, propped up on her elbows, chin in hand. She lay with her feet up, kicking them patiently in the air. As she let Jaskier come to terms, she read quietly from one of the books scattered on the floor. She hummed a little to herself and he simply lay quietly and listened. Now and then, she patted his hair, having felt him sigh. It helped.

A quarter of an hour saw him in better spirits and he eventually emerged from his recumbent cocoon of silence. He wasn’t ready to speak yet, but he’d had his fill of mulling. Ciri saw him rise from the corner of her eye and passed him a book, never looking up from her own. They spent an hour reading together, and the weight of her on his back helped to ground him in the moment. The steady knock of her feet against the soft carpet drowned out the ticking of the clock in the corner of the room and they were in their own comfortable bubble of time, as if they were home in Cintra, sprawled on the castle floor. One hour became two, then Jaskier came to a stopping place in his history. He clapped the book closed and rolled over.

Ciri squawked and pitched forward, pushed by his rolling, but as soon as he was on his back, he caught her up in his arms and gave her a tight hug, squashing up against her cheek. “Time’s up!” he cried cheerfully. “No more mooning. Let’s get productive!”

“What did you have in mind?” Ciri murmured, squished as she was. But she was quite obviously ready for whatever he had planned. She had that look in her eye, just as she always had when he introduced a game or suggested some prank.

“To the yard,” he instructed, releasing her and striding purposefully through the grand glass windows.

Ciri trotted hot on his heels. Then she stopped, taking in the whole of the field for the first time. “Whoa. What a mess.”

And it was. There were several torn up patches of earth from Jaskier’s earlier fits and attempts to make implausible things grow. The stubborn rosebush was still on its side, and though its roots had withered, the blooms refused to die. He let it be, identifying with it in that way. It had fought the good fight, as evidenced by his scratched-up hands.

“Mind your step,” he said. “There are some thorny branches around here somewhere. Made myself a scene flinging them about while I was working.”

Ciri paid attention so that her bare feet might not find a stray thorn lying like a snake in wait in the lush grass. “Are you gardening?” she asked. “Are you so settled here that you’re investing time in something so long-term?”

Jaskier shuddered. “Sweet Melitele, _no_. Though I have been here awhile. I think.”

“Shouldn’t there be servants for that in an estate like this? Surely gods have servants. Are you so idle?”

“The house keeps itself. But the gardening I’ve been doing isn’t a simple task with spades and clippers.” He guided her to his last workspace and stood, hands braced on his hips. “Now watch and see; in a moment I’ll show you what our horrid host meant when he spoke of coming into power. _This_ is my power.”

Ever the showman, he braced himself to put on a display. With a mighty breath, he crouched, feet braced apart, and heaved upward, lifting, straining with his arms raised high. All around him, green sprouts shot out from the empty dirt. They spread outward in a semi-circle around him: wildflowers, small shrubs, a handful of saplings. Their growth was rapid, then began to stagnate as they reached a little above his head, until they came to a sluggish stop. He let his arms fall and let out a hard breath.

Ciri clapped her hands in reflex. “Impressive. Can _I_ do that?”

Jaskier shrugged. He gave one of the saplings a tug, forcing it a foot higher until it began to resist him, then he stood back to admire his work. “I think you’ll be able to do summery things when you come to it. Like … growing squash? Melons? Now let me think: what comes in summer? Ah, something … maybe something to do with making the sun shine brighter and warmer. And making the waves roll that peaceful, inviting way they do only in summertime. Blackberries! Oh yes, you ought to make blackberries grow—if you have growing powers. Things grow in every season; it can’t be limited to only me. It’d be terribly convenient if you came into it quickly, if you might control summer breezes. Then we could get a message sent out.”

“Can’t you do that with Zephyrus?”

Jaskier looked down at her. “Do what with whom?”

“Zephyrus. The west Wind: gentlest of the four. He belongs to Spring. It was in the book I was reading.”

“I haven’t gotten to most of the books stacked by my chair. They’re a new set.” Jaskier squatted on his calves in front of her eagerly. “Tell me about these Winds. Our foul friend has been using them all the while I’ve been here. I’m afraid they’ve all been made one, and to my disadvantage.”

Ciri pointed toward the sun, then the other three directions. “From the west, there’s your Wind, Zephyrus, then Boreas in the north who belongs to Winter, Notus—my Wind—in the south, and Eurus from the east. Eurus probably belongs to Autumn, since the rest are split between us. Can you whistle? I think that’s how sailors do it. If you can whistle up a Wind, maybe it can carry us back down to the Continent, just as it brought us here.”

“But,” Jaskier argued, “if I command the gentlest Wind, even if I could call it to us, would it be strong enough to pick us up?”

“You won’t know if you don’t try. And it has to be! If the west Wind was weak, no man would ever be able to sail east. All our ships would be dead in the water and would never return to port. If a wind is strong enough to move a ship, it can surely move two people.”

Jaskier smiled, grateful for her insight as much as her company. Yes, it was Love’s fatal mistake, bringing her. “Right you are. Let’s give it a go then, shall we?”

He whistled as loudly as he could, high and shrill, commanding. Ciri grinned with pride and joined in, pooling their luck and whatever magic they might have between them. They took a breath each and tried again.

Jaskier hummed, then, “Zephyrus? Zephyr? Come, come, Zeffy old pal!” he called.

Ciri gave him a scathing look, letting him know without a word how tastelessly informal he was being. “Have a bit of dignity. It’s not a dog.”

Jaskier flushed and pursed his lips. He cleared his throat. “It’s only a bit of a warm-up. Steady on, and curb that tongue.” He raised his arms, closed his eyes, and gesticulated theatrically. “Come to my call, zooming, zealous Zephyrus! I offer you soothing silver-tongued songs to carry along, great poems worthy of kings, if you would but come to my aid!”

He cracked one eye open.

Ciri looked around, tilting one ear to the still air, listening for the slightest stir. But nothing came of it. She looked disappointed, but she was quick to recover. “Maybe it goes by another name now. Or it really is one big Wind under his control. Can we steal it, you think?”

“I doubt it, but I’ll do some reading tonight to find out. Surely the phrase ‘old windbag’ has some historical, mythical merit,” he mused. Every phrase had its origin, and he hoped this one might be more literal. Stuff the Wind in a burglar’s sack and make like bandits. But until he knew for sure, he found comfort in his original plan.

“No fear: with or without Wind, I intend to get us home again. I’ve been training hard for the express purpose.”

Ciri brightened, though hardly with the intensity of an optimist. There was a hint of skepticism bunched in her brow. “How?” she asked.

Jaskier trailed a finger up the smooth bark of the sapling. A little sprout emerged and began to climb in a thin vine up the side of it. The vine curled and grew thicker as it climbed, until it had wound halfway to the top. It sprouted purple flowers, followed quickly by green pea pods. He plucked two and tossed one to her. They were crisp, and sweet as his smile. “Jack and Jill are going to flee the giant’s castle the old- fashioned way,” he said with a wink.

Ciri tossed her pea pod up and caught it, pumping her fist. The doubt fled her features and she beamed with confidence. “Let’s do it! How can I help?”

“I’ll keep practicing with my lovely green thumbs in the yard here. It’ll have to be a very thick sprout if it’s going to hold us all the way down to the ground. Grab some books and start reading whatever you can find about the Winds. I’ve already sorted the books: the ones with wind myths are by the left-hand arm of my chair. We’ll work for an hour, have our lunch, then another hour’s work. Sound fair?”

Ciri nodded. “Perfectly. I can read all day. All night if we have good light.”

“No need for that. Don’t go straining yourself unnecessarily. We have to be well rested or it’ll raise suspicions. Lately my frustration has done a fair job of covering for me. _He_ absolutely knows I’m trying to make an escape, but it’d be best not to let him think we’re actively working toward one, nor what methods we intend to use. He’s confident, and that’s a comfort for the time being. He seems to be under the impression that he can hold us here without added security. It’d be best to let him go on thinking so, and the best way to do _that_ is to appear to not be doing anything at all. Get it?”

“Got it.”

“Good. You may take notes in my notebook if you find anything that might be useful. Call me when the clock chimes. I’ll be out here, growing things.”

“Count on me. I’ll have a page before the hour is up.”

Happily, she had two. Jaskier reviewed her notes as they ate. Mostly they were summaries of the myths in which the Winds belonged, spanning a number of different cultures. So far, nothing about calling them or catching them. But progress was progress, even when it didn’t look like it. The process of eliminating useless information was also important. If one wants catfish, one has to wade through the muddy river.

“Where will we go when we leave?” Ciri asked unexpectedly. “How much have you planned out already?”

Jaskier looked up from his plate, a bite of minted pork at the ready. He tapped it against the edge of his plate thoughtfully. “We’ll need to ensure he can’t find us again. A mage of some sort is the first order of business. A cloaking spell, or a charm of misdirection would serve us well for that purpose. I next aim to find a way to send a message to the other gods to ask for their interference before he can come looking for us. A Wind would be useful for that. If you’re still fully mortal, you might be able to pray to them for us, assuming he hasn’t set any magic restrictions in place in anticipation of that. If praying fails, we can ask for the first person we meet on the road to send the prayer for us, or duck into some church and seek out a priest to do the job. Then … we’d have to go someplace where there aren’t any other people. He would sow his seeds somewhere where there are people to pick them up, and he might catch us while out sowing.”

“Who, the priest?” Ciri interjected.

“Our host. Forgive me; I don’t want to say his name, lest his Wind perks up. At best, he’ll think I’ve called for him and answer. At worst, he’ll start eavesdropping.”

She nodded. “A smart habit. Where could we hide away without any people around while we wait for the gods to answer our prayer?”

Jaskier leaned back, scratching his cheek. “My estate is out. He’d know to come looking there. It has to be somewhere with resources that we can access. Not an inn; too many people, and I’d have to perform to earn our keep, and that is the _opposite_ of laying low.”

“If we packed up these books and the clothes in the wardrobe, we could sell them for a mint, buy a lot of supplies, and hide away in a cottage in some deep woods in secret,” Ciri suggested.

“But then we’d have to carry it all down the beanstalk, and down the long road to the nearest town large enough and rich enough to want to purchase them. And once the supplies were used up, we’d have nothing left to sell or trade for more. It isn’t an ideal long-term plan. I’d like to not need one, but there’s no telling how long this might play out.”

“Can’t we kill him first and then make our escape?” Ciri brandished her knife, slicing the air.

Jaskier had thought about it many times. Oh, he’d had afternoons of fantasies about it: getting revenge, freeing himself in a grand heroic vision, but he was security. Love could be tricked into taking them down, or bartered with. If he could not grow a stalk big enough, or summon a Wind, or send a message, there would be no getting out without Love’s aid. Killing him was a last resort. If he _could_ be killed. The question of how to kill something immortal did a fantastic fucking job of staying his wrathful hand. And it must be said, he was afraid of what retribution a being in tune with fathomless power might inflict.

He slipped a finger round the cuff of his boot, running it absently against the leather.

“Do you believe he can be killed?” Jaskier asked at last. “Do you believe I have the power to kill something immortal?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I believe you can strike down anyone that stands in your path.”

“Then, if you’re yet human, that may help us. I’m becoming more like him; I’ll be bound to human belief soon. If you believe in both those things, it may come to pass. I’ll continue to use my own beliefs as well, as long as I can, in the hopes they may still hold their power.”

“You can do it, Jaskier.”

“If the time comes, I’ll do what I can to protect you, but I’m firm in my resolve to first run. No point in showing your hand if the other party folds first, remember, little gambler?”

She nodded, eyes shining.

He raised his knife high, pointing. “Finish your lunch; we’ve got another hour of work ahead. I want to see two more pages when I come inside.”

Ciri clinked her own knife against it, parrying. “And maybe you can teach me a few moves afterwards. You did promise me you would when I grew older. Now seems like the right time.”

“Three pages and it’s a deal.”

She provided a cheeky fourth page for his inspection, though an argument could be made that the fourth was a stretch. Her handwriting had grown slightly larger toward the end, and the spaces between the lines was wider than the last assignment. Jaskier tucked the notes proudly into his notebook with the others, and congratulated her on the clever scheming by giving her that first painful fencing lesson.

“To get in position, put your feet at shoulder width. Turn your left foot out squarely, from the heel. Now, pivot your foot by the toe until your foot is straight. Repeat this motion once more until your stance is wide and square, and keep your left toe pointed outward so that your feet make a wide, detached _L_ shape. This technique will ensure you don’t have too wide or narrow of a stance. Do you feel the balance? Make minor adjustments if you need.”

Ciri’s right toe shifted in the process. Jaskier circled her, inspecting, then turned her toe straight forward with a long, thin branch. “Good. Now squat a bit. You can’t leave your knees locked. In a fight, something always has to give, and you don’t want it to be your kneecaps. Raise your arms like so,” he instructed, holding his branch arm forward, relaxed, and his free arm out and back. “This arm”—he raised his empty left and shook it for emphasis—“is for balance. When you begin thrusting, you will extend this arm behind you. For now, we’ll work on building strength in your thighs. Endurance is key. The power comes from your legs. If you can’t hold yourself upright in this position for long, you’ll be run through or on the ground. Arms up. Relax the joints, but no sagging. Keep the point up.”

Ciri held a slim branch of her own. Squatted and arms raised, she held her pose. “Like this?”

“Yes. Squat bit lower. Turn your wrist up, keep your pommel in.” He turned her wrist for her and put the thick end of the branch against her wrist. “Your forefinger should be out, pointing toward your target. Now hold that.”

“For how long?”

“Until I tell you to rest.”

Then Jaskier wandered back inside, snuggled himself into his chair, and began reviewing her notes.

After a stretch of silence, Ciri turned her head to look through the windows. Her arms were getting tired. “Jaskier?” she called.

“Keep holding! It’s only been …” Jaskier squinted up at the clock. “A minute and a half.” He chuckled to himself. A minute seemed like an eternity when he’d first started, arms and legs trembling, and it was made worse by how boring it was just standing in place doing nothing.

At the three-minute mark, he saw her beginning to shake. A number of times her branch had started to sink down before she raised the point again. She bit her bottom lip, struggling to perform to Jaskier’s unknowable expectations. Toward the end of it, she forgot twice to breathe and he heard her gasp all the way from his chair. Then, after four minutes of straight squatting, she threw herself down in the grass with a pained grunt.

“Four minutes, thirteen seconds,” he announced. He set the notes aside and clapped. “An impressive start! Shake everything out, take a breath, then we can go again on another drill.”

“Can’t I stab anything yet?” she grumbled, arm flung over her eyes to block out the sun.

“No, but you can practice advancing and retreating. And if you keep your feet in position, I might let you practice thrusting next.”

“I thought learning to fight would be more fun.”

“Ah,” Jaskier shook his head and tutted, wagging a finger. “But we must learn the basics now before you fall into poor habits. Anyone can stab a man, but fighting takes discipline, nuance. And the things I teach you will give you better chances of actually making that stab without your attack being thrown aside. It’s as my old instructor Williford taught me, but let’s hope you don’t fall into _my_ old habits. I’m going to keep a _close_ eye on that pommel.”

“Is that another word for wrist?” Ciri asked, whapping at him blindly with her branch.

“It’s the fat knob-thing at the end of the sword. I’ll show you a picture later. Your beloved wolf likes to use it to knock people out now and then.”

Ciri raised her arm to look at him, smirking. “Speaking from experience?”

“Ugh, what a rude expression. You’re half as wolfish as _he_ is already.” Even so, he rubbed the back of his head, giving her all the answer she needed.

So the afternoon went. Jaskier had her practice her stance in sprints. Once he’d finished reading and marking her notes, he retired his notebook and returned to his own exercises. They worked in sync. Whenever Jaskier announced, “Thrust!” Ciri would thrust and hold her position. Meanwhile, he would thrust a stalk from the ground. On the following cry of, “Recover!” they would return to their original positions and prepare for the next movement. Over and over they worked until they both grew tired, each one trying to push through and keep up appearances, neither wanting to be the first to quit. Until Jaskier did the adult thing and flung himself panting on the dirt in surrender.

The cart rolled itself between them, announcing its arrival with a chiding squeak. It offered them a pitcher of cold, refreshing apple juice. There was an accompanying assortment of apples on a plate beside two freshly poured glasses. They devoured their snack gratefully and Jaskier gave the cart a polite pat before it went on its merry way with a satisfied squeak of its wheels.

Sore and sweaty, they lay on the cool tile for the rest of the afternoon. They napped awhile, then Jaskier looked at the clock and decided it was time to get ready for dinner. Ciri was annoyed when he drew up a second bath for her, but they’d both been working hard and sweating, and Love would be expecting them both to be pressed and presentable at dinner. So she let herself he ushered into the tub once more, and into a fresh change of clothes.

When Jaskier sunk into the tub for his turn, Ciri noticed something odd. She pointed at his boots hanging over the side. “Why are you still wearing those?” she asked.

“For security. Call it an old superstition.”

Ciri looked at him, but shrugged it off. She reached into the wardrobe and picked up an article. “Oh, Jaskier! You should wear this.” In her hands, she held the cream jacket with the pastel embroidery. “It’s so soft,” she said, awe in her voice. “You’d look … oh, you’d look like a prince come riding right out of a fairytale.”

“No,” Jaskier replied in a tone that brooked no argument.

Ciri argued anyway. “Why not?” she asked, brows raised high in surprise. It was just the sort of thing anyone would expect him to wear. Such clothes suited him.

Jaskier splashed as he lifted an arm from the water to roll his hand vaguely. “It’s a bargaining chip I’ve been hanging onto. Choose something else.”

Ciri turned back to the wardrobe, holding the jacket under her chin as she faced the mirror hung inside the door. She smiled, turned a bit, then put the jacket away. She pulled out another: a deep, velvet green. “How’s this one?” she asked. He nodded his approval and she proceeded to set it out for him on the chest. She added a sheer cape embroidered with large clusters of yellow flowers. There was a matching pair of velvet shoes, but Jaskier did not touch these when he dressed and presented himself for inspection.

“You’re keeping the boots?” she asked.

“That’s right.”

She stared at them a moment more. Then, nervously, she asked, “Should I have kept mine?”

“I don’t think it’ll be a problem for you. Go ahead and wear what you like, bitty barefoot.”

Ciri crossed one foot over the other. She’d been running around without shoes all day. The grass had been too soft to bother with them, but now she delighted in finding a pair of fur slippers. They didn’t match her clothes one bit, but they had looked too soft and comfortable to refuse. Let it be her own little act of rebellion, dressing out of decorum when she knew perfectly well what was expected of her in such a fine place. She didn’t know the customs of a godly court, but surely they fell in line with that of kings and queens at the very least.

“A new cape?” Jaskier asked, tidying the chain cloak clasp in the mirror.

“You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to. But I thought we ought to match.” She spun around from her own mirror in the opposite door to show off her own cape.

“I suppose I can put my usual to the side for one evening.” He looked down at her fur slippers and smiled approvingly. “I’m partial to fur as well, so you can see,” he added, pointing to his preferred cape, draped on the bed.

“I think a bit of comfort will help us get through this evening,” she said.

At that, Jaskier kneeled in front of her and took her hands very seriously. “You don’t have to come to dinner with me if you’d prefer not to.” In fact, he’d rather it not be something Love came to expect. And there were several things he indented to discuss with him at dinner which concerned her arrival in the realm that he’d rather she not be present for.

“I’m your back-up,” she countered.

“Then back up for one moment and consider: our host might very well intend to use you against me. I’d like to do what I can tonight to ensure that will not become the case. It might be more difficult for me to do with you in the room, and he might delay any serious conversation if you were around to shift focus. Please, if it’s at all possible, I’d like you to return and have your dinner here after we greet him. Play shy, or play sick if you need. Will you do me that favor?”

“If you will tell me about it all afterwards,” she agreed.

“Then brace yourself. He ought to be in the dining hall by the time we get there.”

He offered her the crook of his arm and together they walked the long hall of windows. The orange evening light filtered in through the tall glass in bright contrast to the dreariness of the dark hardwood paneling of the walls. The temple itself was brighter beyond the dining hall; it seemed to serve as a place of transition between the two styles. The temple was lighthearted in its colorful fresco, and it was more inviting to look at. But Jaskier did not fall prey to its charms. However dark his wing was, it was a comfort to know he was alone in its halls.

Love was indeed waiting for them in the dining hall. As always, he stood somewhere within the room rather than seated by the table, for he always waited until Jaskier arrived that he might usher him into his chair as befitted a gentleman and host. Now, he was standing at one of the many windows by the entry, absently scratching the back of his wrists as he stared, brow furrowed in annoyance. His expression changed immediately to that of delight when he heard their footsteps approach. Jaskier noted that the table was made up with only the usual two place settings.

“There you are. You’re prompt today,” Love said, turning toward them. He strode before Ciri and did a bobbing bow. “How good of you to come, and so finely dressed! Now what, my dear, would you like for your dinner?”

“Oh. I get a choice? I thought it’d already been arranged.”

“For us it has,” Love replied, tilting his head toward Jaskier. “I know I set the expectation that we would speak more tonight, but there are a few things I must discuss with your guardian alone. Your dinner will be waiting for you back in the room. What would you like?”

Ciri looked at Jaskier, uncertainly. “Could I have slow roast and peas?” she asked, thinking back to her last banquet in the castle. It’d been so long since she’d had beef. “And Jaskier told me about the ‘ato’ vegetables served here. Could I try them too? If it isn’t much trouble.”

Love squinted down at her in confusion. “Ato?”

“Potatoes and tomatoes,” Jaskier explained, clearing his throat.

Love blinked. Then he laughed. He laughed for a full minute, deep, enthusiastic laughter that shook his chest. He clapped Ciri’s shoulder as he gave a last giggle and rose again. “Of course you may! I’ll have a whole plate of _atoes_ sent with your dinner. _Atoes_ , really! Run along, you scamp. Oh, she’s a delight, Jaskier. What a charming girl!”

Ciri dashed back down the hall, ears red and cape flying. It was half from embarrassment, Jaskier felt sure, but he also knew that little run well. It was the same when she was dismissed early from her lessons: full of relief. It was the happy departure from unfamiliar, unpleasant company; a blissful retreat back to the safety and privacy of solitude.

How he’d like to dash right along with her.

“Sit,” Love said, pulling Jaskier’s chair from its place.

Jaskier closed his eyes a moment, then crossed to the center of the room to take his seat. He arranged his cape neatly beneath him and unfurled his napkin as porcelain dishes settled themselves upon the vast table.

“You look right royal this evening. Have you given her a tour yet; let her get the run of the place?” Love asked, serving himself a thick slice of marinated lamb. He took a bite, clearly enjoying himself.

“Ciri dressed me. And no, I haven’t,” Jaskier replied. “We’ve spent the day mostly outdoors, gardening, exercising, with a bit of reading in the latter half of the day. Had a nap before getting washed for dinner.”

“Sounds as if our little guest has already become quite settled here in the realm.”

Jaskier gripped his napkin beneath the table with tight fists. “How long will you be forcing her to stay here?”

Love eyed him innocently, not raising his head from his plate.

Jaskier leaned forward, bracing himself against the table. He pointed an accusing finger at Love, levelling him with a tight glare. “You have no claim on her. There’s no contract binding her here. I know you’ve only brought her to use as collateral against me,” Jaskier insisted.

Love set down his cutlery, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, and smoothed it in his lap delicately. “Until this morning, I had no idea you knew anything about her,” he replied calmly. “It was a pleasant surprise. That being said, it does put me in quite a position.” He placed a hand to his lips and looked away, feigning distress. His next words made Jaskier’s teeth gnash. “I _had_ meant to send her back where she was found after a short visit—only a day, really—but now I’m conflicted. You see, the Wind told me it found her on the run from a legion of heartless, savage men. Soldiers on the prowl. I suppose she would have become collateral in a territorial war, had it not brought her here directly. I hate to think what might have become of such a sweet child. But, if you feel it best to dispose of her company, I shall not insist on her staying. It’s up to you to decide what must be done.”

“You’re so full of shit, your eyes have gone brown with it and your face has warped into a second ass,” Jaskier hissed. “Whether I knew her personally or not, you knew I’d never send an innocent person to certain death. You found her before you made your offer, didn’t you?”

Love smiled. “A room has already been arranged and it will be open for her use in the morning. I think it best she not spend her first night alone in an unfamiliar place, don’t you? There will be extra blankets and bedding waiting for you on the chest when you return.”

“Wonderful,” Jaskier grumbled. He clenched his teeth until he could feel it behind his eyes. His insult was already crossing a line. He would not risk further aggravating Love, lest his disapproval be reflected in his treatment of Ciri. Love was making allowances for his behaviour—he could see it in his satisfied expression. He’d won this round, and that was enough for today.

As if waiting for a cue, the platters and such began to take a turn about the table, filling their plates and cups in the empty interlude. It allowed Jaskier time to cool his head. Love waited until they finished before speaking again.

“Moving on, I would like to tailor any final adjustments to her room,” Love said. “I want to surprise her, so naturally we could not speak of it in front of her. And I knew you had questions that would not do to be asked in her presence. So tell me, what are her interests?”

“She likes music,” Jaskier grumbled.

“A child after your own heart. I’ll provide a variety of instruments for her use. What else?”

“She likes green, orange, and blue. She’s an active girl and she’d rather have trousers than dresses for outdoor activity. Where dresses are concerned, she’ll only require them for evening wear. She’s fond of soft things and furs. If you offer them, she’ll wear your shoes.”

“Ah,” Love interjected. “So she differs from you in _that_ at least.”

“She was impressed by the skylight in my room. Is that enough for your list?”

Love nodded. “Yes, this will do fine for an introduction. It’d be better to leave some things for improvement later. If you get a year’s gifts in a day, you’d grow bored of them. Everyone needs little surprises to look forward to.”

Jaskier cut hard into his lamb until his knife squeaked rudely against his plate. There would be surprises in their future, of that there was no doubt. He only wished he might see the look on Love’s stolen face when he found the temple empty one fine day, so comical in its exaggeration. And that day was fast approaching.

When Jaskier retired for the night, his room was dark but for the flicker of the fire. Ciri was curled up in his armchair, the evidence of her dinner on the low table by her side. Dinner had gone long, and the cart had come in with a plate of biscuits, now half-bare and covered in flaky crumbs, and a fluted mug along with them that sported the dark remains of hot chocolate.

Jaskier covered her over with his fur cloak, forgoing the spare blankets Love provided, then he undressed and settled into bed. Moments later, he felt the other side of the bed dip. Soft hair tickled his nose, smelling of orange blossom and chocolate, and a small hand took his. Ciri nestled beside him comfortably as she’d done many afternoons on the warm grass, taking comfort in his company. He smiled and wrapped his arm around her. Even with a fragile spider’s web of a plan to cling to, he’d find a way to get them home again. He’d keep them safe and bring her to Geralt, wherever he was. After all: people linked by destiny will always find each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10,000 word update because you have all been so patient, and because I wanted to hurry up and get to Geralt's song without a lot of chapters in between. Remember back in chapter two when I said Geralt's song would be coming in, what, two chapters? That was laughable. But it's now true, I can finally say. We are reaching the climax and soon Yennefer will FINALLY be involved again. Forgive any spelling errors but it's too long and as always I refuse to reread and edit until a week or so later.
> 
> Please enjoy the gratuitous fencing content. I did not study fencing for four years to do NOTHING with it after graduation.
> 
> A note for Star_Flaming: I've just gotten the violet candies in and I cannot begin to tell you how wonderful they are! They make me want to sit in the countryside—that's how they taste. I'll be sending some along to my friends as well, so I'll thank you from all of us for introducing them to us. I'll have one every update in celebration. And since this is twice as long as the usual update, I will treat myself to two.


	17. Set Alight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger warning for fire.
> 
> 10,996

Really, Jaskier should not have been surprised; Love was one for theatrics. He loved to be chased after, if the scene he’d made in the bathing chamber was any indication. So when the breakfast cart rolled in the next morning, then backed out from under Ciri’s hand, that ought to have hinted that his mischief was once more at work.

“What’s it doing?” Ciri asked, looking to him expectantly.

Jaskier could only shrug. Usually the cart was accommodating. “Try it again.”

Ciri did, reaching for a glazed kreple among the stack of sweet pastries, but the cart rolled out of reach, halfway to the bedroom door. She turned back to him, clearly put out. She tapped her foot at the cart, arms crossed, with a mild glare. “What’s with you?”

“I think I can guess,” Jaskier said. He stepped toward the cart. It inched away. He sighed, then reached back for Ciri’s hand. “Come on. It’s easier to just go with it. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can have breakfast.”

Ciri took his hand and jogged alongside him. “Get where?” she asked.

“To wherever it’s taking us.”

The cart kindly slowed long enough for Ciri to snatch her kreple before rolling along ahead of them, guiding them down the lengthy corridor. She took a good look around, seeing the place for the first time in daylight. The dining hall was less imposing than its dark panelling and regal tile had suggested in firelight, and now it seemed even dull. She’d known ballrooms. It was just another stuffy room like all the rest of them, no matter how complex or stately the pattered tile might be. She wiped the flaky sugar glaze from her chin and flicked it on the floor with contempt. The kreple was, in fact, the most impressive thing of the morning so far.

Jaskier expected to find Love at the table, waiting to share breakfast with them to welcome Ciri on her first morning. It was the kind of thing he’d allow himself to delay work for. But the table was empty and the cart rolled on past it. Jaskier remembered the next stretch of hall from his first night of frantic running, where at the far end he’d found the door that reminded him of the kitchen stairs. Opening it before had led him right back to his own room. He wondered if it would again. He intended to try it, but the cart stopped him before a new door. Ciri bumped her stomach against the handle of the cart and murmured apologetically, having been too distracted by the pretty stained-glass windows in the wall to notice it slowing.

“This must be it,” Jaskier said. Then he remembered Love had promised Ciri a room of her own. It wasn’t terribly far, but he wasn’t comfortable having her room such a long way away from his own. If anything happened to her, it’d be a sprint to get there. Not that he expected anything to happen, but it put him on edge.

“Hm?” Ciri grunted, mouth full.

“Look.” He pointed at the door where gold letters embellished the dark wood. _Ciri_ it read.

Immediately she said, “I don’t want it,” and whipped back around. She swiped two more pastries from the cart and made to return whence they came.

Jaskier tugged her cloak, stopping her in place. “You don’t have to stay in it, but he’s probably waiting for us on the other side. He’ll be upset if we don’t go in.”

“Do I have to pretend to like it?” she asked. “I can, but do I have to?”

“Just a bit, if you wouldn’t mind. He’s proud.”

Ciri groaned. Even so, she marched back to the door. She held up a fig tart in the air and Jaskier ducked his head down to accept it between his teeth. She wiped off her sticky hand on her cloak, then reluctantly opened the door. As she stepped inside, she raised her second kreple for a bite, but it remained hanging in front of her lips, unbitten.

The room was bright and cheerful, all pale green and blue. The walls were papered in floral print, little pink, orange, and yellow primroses poking out over the pattern. The theme of primroses continued through the room, from the embroidery on her sitting chairs, to the carvings on her bedposts. Her bed was a shower of lace curtains and dark velvet. An inviting pile of furs lay folded at the foot of the bed, and a matching robe was draped beside them.

The cart rolled under Ciri’s falling hand to catch her kreple, lest the glaze stain the rug.

Her eyes caught the bright shadow of stained glass on a bare patch of floor. The soft rugs and carpets didn’t even register as her eyes shot up to the ceiling. She gaped at the beautiful oculus, squinting at the light to make out the circle of periwinkles winking down at them. A bubble of laughter trickled out of her throat. She dashed forward, but stopped herself, too excited to decide which direction to go in first, what drawer, what wardrobe to open and admire. One of bright red cedar stood in a corner, its doors open, and something peeked out from it all silk and sparkle. Her hands fisted in her cloak and she dared not touch anything with her sticky fingers. She bit her lip. The first order of business, she decided, was to find a washbasin.

Jaskier took a turn around the room, equally impressed. Love had listened after all. While he couldn’t vouch for such pink wood against the green walls and blue furniture, it was just the sort of wild and colorful room that would suit a playful child. He sank into one of the plush chairs by the fireplace, nibbling his tart, not really tasting it.

Ciri found the basin and poured herself enough water for a quick wash. Her hands were still damp when she tossed off her cloak and jumped onto the bed. “Oh, it’s so soft! Jaskier, come sit and try it!”

Jaskier smiled. “Another time, when I’m not sticky,” he said, shaking his tart.

Ciri was already distracted, sitting up on her knees. “Jaskier, look! Look at the windows!”

They formed a wide arc on the far wall of the room. On either side, they were lined with benches and green cushions. Where they met in the middle, the benches stopped and became a large door that led outside to the field. The windows were dispersed with panels of different flowers here and there among the plain glass.

“Huh,” Jaskier exhaled. There ought to have been no windows on that wall, if the house was laid out logically. The hall went on in that direction. But then, he’d learned better than to question the way the doors and windows worked. If they wished, the house would provide windows in a _cellar_ that looked several stories down onto the lawn, he was sure.

“Oh!” Ciri cried. She leapt from the bed, losing a slipper in the process, and bumbled over to the windows. There was a little archway between them and the bed. She veered through it, then he heard her gasp, loud and exaggerated, but entirely genuine. “Oh, Jaskier, you have to see this!”

Jaskier set his tart down on a plate the cart diligently provided, then washed his hands quickly. He wiped them on his trousers and rounded the bed, a little eager to see for himself what awaited in the little off room that had her so excited.

Ciri stood in the middle of a circular anteroom, only a little smaller than the bedroom had been. It was lined with columns and painted fresco, like the altar chamber. She had her arms wrapped around a great, sloping harp. It was fantastically carved with a lounging lion resting over the top, arms dangling over the side of a column wound round with climbing roses. The feet of the harp had claws. Ciri was hugging the soundbox, eyes shining as she plucked one string repeatedly.

“It’s _majestic,”_ she whispered, reaching up to poke the lion’s tail.

“I thought you might like it.”

Ciri made a small noise and circled behind the harp strings. She reached for Jaskier and dug her fingers in his cloak. Love was sitting on a cushioned bench on the opposite wall. He had his hands folded politely against his knees. He was practically preening, knowing Ciri had been too busy admiring her new rooms to notice him. He’d heard every gasp and cry of delight while waiting in the little alcove.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Love assured her. “Stand proud. No need to hide like a guilty child behind a mother’s skirts.”

Ciri flushed red, releasing Jaskier’s cape, but she edged a little further behind his arm so Love might not see her glaring. Love did, regardless, and he chuckled.

“She’s easy to adore,” he said. “Such a funny thing.”

 _“You’re_ a funny thing,” she grumbled.

Love smiled all the brighter. “Saucy temper to match. She’s your child, if there was ever any doubt. I think it suits her.” Love winked at Jaskier, who looked unamused. He returned his attentions to Ciri and asked, “Do you play the harp?”

“No,” she replied, speaking to Jaskier’s elbow.

“She never had much of an appreciation for any of her music teachers at home,” Jaskier explained. He stepped forward, ushering her behind him to offer her a moment of reprieve. “I would teach her in the summer, but my visits weren’t long enough to encourage structured learning. Without regular sessions, she wouldn’t have the discipline to pick up an instrument.”

“Hey,” Ciri warned, bumping his arm. But it was enough to distract her from her embarrassment.

“It’s true: you wouldn’t.”

Ciri marched past him toward one of the many recesses in the wall. Inside them, collections of instruments sat poised upright or hung on hooks. Ciri approached one which sported a collection of woodwinds and plucked a flute from its hook. “There,” she said, wiggling it in her hand. “I’ve _picked up_ an instrument.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Jaskier replied. Still, he couldn’t help a little smile.

Love clapped his hands for attention. “Come then, teacher; inspire us to learn. Won’t you play something before I go to my work?”

Jaskier looked around the room. There were flutes and recorders, lyres and drums, there was even a lute in the corner, turned just so to face him. It sat as if waiting for him. But Jaskier shook his head.

“My instrument of choice isn’t among your collection,” he said.

“Quite right. It’s there in your throat. So use it and sing something for us.”

Jaskier scowled. For a moment, he thought they might have a nice day after all, then Love had to make his appearance and ruin the pleasant mood. He’d rather have Love’s slimy tongue in his mouth again than willingly _sing_ for him. He’d rather had _Valdo Marx’s_ tongue shoved between his teeth. That was one gift he’d reserve for better company.

Ciri glanced between them. Love’s smile was slowly becoming stiffer as the silence stretched on. She stepped away, put the flute back on the wall, and cleared her throat. When both pairs of eyes were on her, she stood straighter and said, “I can sing.”

“Ciri, you don’t h—”

“Would you like to hear me sing?” Ciri asked, locking eyes with Love.

Love indulged her with a polite smile. “You may sing if you like,” he said. In a moment, his gaze was once more focused on Jaskier, glaring openly. Jaskier took a seat on the opposite bench and ignored him. If Ciri meant to sing, he’d listen. He’d applaud and be a good audience, even as Love bored a hole through his head.

_There’s a sad little bird, you can hear him cry;_

_There’s a sad little bird in the blue._

_There’s a sad little bird flying in the sky;_

_Listen closely, he’s calling to you._

_Hear him calling: Winter! Winter is near!_

_Hear him calling: Winter! Winter is here!_

_Come stretch out your wings and take to the air_

_And we’ll fly away until the day the weather’s fair._

It was nothing more than a little children’s rhyme: a short tune for practicing scales. Jaskier recognized it. He himself had sung it with her many summers ago, when she told him about the lonely winter months when she missed the birds. The song mimicked the cry of the chickadee. He hoped it might remind her of their call when they were away, and that the song would bring her comfort until they returned in the spring. But he saw the way Love’s knuckles turned white, his hands tightly clasped. Jaskier looked back at Ciri, feeling his heart beat faster. Had she chosen the song on purpose? He couldn’t imagine she’d be so foolhardy.

Love leaned forward, feigning interest. He clapped politely as Ciri curtsied at the end of her song. “Is winter your favorite season?” he asked conversationally.

“I hate it,” Ciri replied. “All the birds leave in winter, and there’s no singing. If I could, I would fly away in the winter, just like the bird in the song, and go somewhere warm and full of music where it’s always summer.”

Love looked surprised. His expression was blank as he looked back at her. “Is that so?” he asked, as if he doubted what he’d heard.

Ciri shrugged. “It’s much prettier here. Even if the field outside is all torn up, it’s still green. I hate all the mud and mess that comes with winter, and I was having a poor time of it before I came. _Here_ it’s warm and the sun is shining. There’s no muck and everything’s clean. Not to say I’ve come around to the idea of being stuck here, but it isn’t the worst place to be stuck.”

An earnest smile crinkled the corner of Love’s eyes. He looked obviously flattered. Slowly, he stood and crossed the room to place his hands on her shoulders. “Thank you for your song,” he said. “You have a bright voice, and you lend it well to the craft. Perhaps you might sing it again for me sometime.”

He smoothed her hair and turned to Jaskier. “It really was wonderful,” he said. “It was not the song I wanted, but I find afterwards that I’ve enjoyed it. She’s too charming to be denied.” He patted Jaskier’s shoulder as he stole his way from the room. There was an air of finality in his exit, and they knew they would not see him again until evening.

Jaskier let out a breath. He’d been worried. When he turned back to Ciri, there was a twinkling in her eyes. “Did you mean that, about winter?” he asked. He knew she found winter lonely, and she wasn’t fond of mess, but she’d spoken so scornfully.

“Not a word,” she replied, grinning wickedly. She flopped down beside the harp and hummed, plucking random strings.

Jaskier laughed. “Oh, you clever, cheeky rascal! Did you trick me into loving you the same way? Really, I appreciate it, but that was reckless of you. It isn’t your job to diffuse these situations. I should be the one to do that.”

“You looked like you needed help this time, and it never hurts to get on the good side of someone you hate. A little lie here and there does no harm. And I learned from the best,” she added.

“Even so—don’t do it again.”

“I won’t, if you play something for me.”

The way she smiled up at him, he knew he couldn’t refuse. So he picked up the lute and sat on the floor, back to the bench. “I won’t sing though, I warn you now. I won’t sing a single note here in this place. You’ll have to make do with the music alone.”

“I don’t mind.” She seemed to understand as she scooted beside him, ready to listen.

In a few short notes, the tension was banished from the room, and it was just the two of them once more, comfortable in their own company. Jaskier closed his eyes, strumming, and Ciri tucked her head on his shoulder. He played something gentle: simple and soothing.

It was something he’d written a long time ago, on a soft, sad day in late fall. He’d felt distant for a time when he and Geralt travelled together, wrapped up in his own thoughts. Winter would come soon, and they’d go their separate ways until colliding again in the spring. He kept his lute out awhile, plucking absently as he walked. Now and then, he sat and stared into space, thinking about the new song that tried to force itself into being. He didn’t know how to reach it, but by sitting quietly, he could hear it in snatches somewhere in the back of his mind. For a time, he almost didn’t want to write it. If he wrote it, it’d be finished, and he liked to think of new songs, especially when they were difficult to get out. This one was so simple, and the simplest ones were always hardest. Fewer notes meant that each had to work perfectly. It had to be sweet. He felt sweet, though the song was born of a _bittersweet_ feeling.

“What are you thinking?” Geralt had asked, sitting beside him.

Jaskier was pulled from his trance, and suddenly he found himself staring up at a dark sky. It had been a glorious golden sunset moments ago, he was sure. His hands were stalled on his lute, frozen in place as he contemplated. He could not even say when Geralt had approached him.

“You’re never so quiet,” Geralt said. “It’d be impressive, if it wasn’t so unnerving.”

Jaskier let the bottom of his lute touch the ground, holding the neck limply in hand. “I’ve been thinking,” he replied. He continued to stare into the middle distance.

“I said as much. What about?”

Jaskier shook his head. “It’s nothing really. Just a silly, human thing.” And for once, he counted Geralt as something other. It was one thing that Geralt could not understand quite the same way. “There isn’t enough time to do all the things I’d like to do. I probably won’t travel all the world, or finish every song I write. There will be people I won’t meet, friends I won’t make. At least once every year I’ll look back and regret not doing something sooner that might’ve easily been done, had I not been a coward. Even if I did do everything I want, I’d regret not doing them sooner, enjoying them longer. When I’m sixty—if I live to then—I’ll ask myself why I didn’t learn the lute at fifteen, or ten.”

“That’s a bit silly.”

“Yes, it is. I’m a bit silly, Geralt. And I think many silly things.”

“Why not go off and do all those things then? I always thought you were a man without restraint. You can do what you like, so why don’t you?”

“Because I’m already doing what I like best. I’m doing everything, even as I sit here thinking I’ve done nothing.” He sighed. “Forgive me. I’m not saying what I’m meaning. Not really.”

“Then say what you mean.” Geralt spoke gruffly, half rolling his eyes. Jaskier had seen it. He remembered it fondly. He missed those moments when Geralt would call him out for the ridiculous things he did.

“I won’t,” Jaskier had decided.

“And why not?”

The answer was just as simple as the song: some things couldn’t be put into words. And once he put words to them, they could not be taken back. He never did put words to his song, even when now and again they came to mind.

Jaskier had picked up his lute again and played the first few notes. It had been cold, and the next morning, it had snowed. But that day, it was not yet winter. And they were together. But the truth was, he knew deep in his bones where the chill of winter nights creeped in, that they would not always be together. Even if he travelled by Geralt’s side until his legs grew rattled and infirm. One day, he’d no longer be able to travel the Path. When that day came, he could not ask Geralt to stay with him. He could not even bring himself to lean against his shoulder there that night. He would live and die a coward, if only to travel by his side as long as he could, singing disguised songs, inventing objects upon which to lavish the attentions he so wished to lavish elsewhere. It was the closest thing to honesty to leave the song unsung. Let it stay without words, like himself.

“Do you like my new song, Geralt?” he asked as the last note died away.

Geralt had looked at him strangely, but Jaskier did not remember it well as the years had warped it into a vague feeling that he’d perhaps imagined Geralt looking at him at all. “No,” he’d replied.

“It’s just as well. I doubt if I shall play it again. It doesn’t seem to want to be finished.”

But he did play it again. He was always alone when he played it, but not today. Today, with Ciri, he allowed himself to go unguarded. If he might not get the chance again, he wanted to say those things, even if Geralt were not around to hear. It was better that he didn’t.

He played the song several times, his fingers comfortably dancing on the familiar notes. He was lost in his remembrance, and it lulled him to a doze. His fingers began to slow on the strings and he felt Ciri stirring beside him. Then, without warning, she yipped and grabbed his arm. Jaskier’s eyes shot wide open and he fumbled with the lute.

“Jaskier!”

He looked past her outstretched finger. And he saw it. Vines were reaching in through the window, nudging it open and creeping along the bench. He stood and pulled Ciri to her feet. They ran into the next room where came a creaking. The great door was open, and vines were snaking their way around the benches there as well, converging toward the archway that led to the music room.

Ciri looked at him, and gave voice to his own thoughts. “You make plants grow,” she said.

Quick as a whip, he was through the door and out in the field. He turned back to the house, playing the lute again as he focused on the vines. He nearly dropped the lute as he saw the true magnitude of growth. The entire side of the house was covered over in thick, leafy ivy. “Melitele’s heavenly tits,” he whispered.

Ciri stood by his side, equally awed and impressed. “Fuck.”

Jaskier blanched. “Oh no, don’t you go picking up that habit,” he scolded, remembering himself. “What’ll I tell Geralt when he hears you talking with a tongue like that?”

“Tell him to direct his complaints to my grandmother. Now play that again! Can you make them grow bigger?”

Jaskier adjusted his stance, still staring sourly at the back of her haughty head, but in a moment, he was playing again. The vines stretched out towards him, growing bigger as they came. He played louder, faster, until the song was unrecognizable. The vines grew as thick as his arm before they stopped, and he dropped to the ground, dizzy.

“Phew! I think that was a bit much before breakfast,” he said.

Ciri rushed to set him upright. “That was incredible! Even better than yesterday. You managed to do it without even thinking, and look at the house!”

Jaskier drooped heavily in her arms. “Very viny, ‘s great,” he slurred. “Erm. We’re going to have to get rid of all that before he sees,” he said in a flash of clarity. Then, the stars were dancing in his eyes and his ears felt warm and full of cotton. Seconds later, he went limp and passed out.

When Jaskier awoke, it was to the sound of Ciri shrieking. He raised himself off the ground on shaking arms, his head still light and unfocused. There was a throbbing in his head and his ears jumped and drummed in time to Ciri’s panicked cries. At first he believed she was panicking over his faint, but he slowly realized she was somewhere away from him. He smelled smoke. Had she dragged him inside by the fireplace? Then his ears cleared and he heard the deafening crackle.

Jaskier opened his eyes and was greeted by a blazing wall of fire creeping up the vines on the side of the house. Ciri’s dress was torn and scorched. She held a pitcher in her hands and the cart was going in wild circles around her, wheels squeaking like mad. Jaskier snapped to attention and stumbled to her side.

“Ciri! What in the seven hells—!”

“Jaskier!” she shrieked. She tossed the empty pitcher aside and began waving her hands like mad. She started rambling explanations as quickly as she could get the words out, red in the face. “I was only pulling down the vines! You said we had to clean it all up, and I was making a pile of them, then I was talking to myself, thinking out loud, and I thought it might be a good idea to burn them once we’d got them all together, but then I reached up to pull one of the vines down and—! And—! I don’t know what happened, but I touched it and it just _caught fire_!”

Frightened tears poured down her face and she took shallow, quick breaths. “My _hand_ was on fire! I tried smacking it against my dress to put it out, but my _dress_ caught fire and I had to tear it off! I asked the cart for some water, but it can only get it one pitcher at a time! Jaskier, help me! I don’t know what to do!”

Ciri and Jaskier both shrieked as a thick burning vine tore off the side of the house, crashing around them. Jaskier pushed her behind him. He raised his hands and tried to call the vines free of the house. They squirmed and flailed as they attempted to obey. Jaskier’s fingers twitched and he gasped, feeling a burning sensation up and down his arm. He fell on the ground, clutching it as the vines continued to whip in the air.

“Stop!” Ciri said, shaking his shoulder. Her hot tears fell on his cheek as he rolled in the dirt. Then, she saw a small flame emerge from under her fingers. She gasped and pulled away with a startled grunt. The flame stayed in the middle of her palm, waving as she moved. With her other hand, she clapped her palms together, stifling it. When she turned up her palms, she found not a hint of a burn on her skin. She stared at her hand, then up at the burning vines.

Ciri ran to the fire, patting it with her naked palms. “Stop!” she commanded. “Stop, stop, _stop!_ Die! Extinguish! Stop _burning_ everything!”

The flames disappeared under her touch. Those above faded, leaving nothing but blacked vegetation. The remains still smoked, but the house was untouched. The vines had not burned past the glass windows.

Ciri stood still, breathing heavily. She dropped to her knees. Her hands clasped together against her chest, she stared at the destruction, and she understood. “I … I did that. I thought about burning it all, and it burned,” she murmured. Her hands trembled, so tightly she held them.

Jaskier pulled himself upright. He could see Ciri beginning to climb down from her panic, and he knew what came next. He reached for her, his arm no longer hurt.

Ciri took two broken breaths, then it came crashing down. “I don’t want to be a god!” she screamed. Her voice cracked and she flung her arms around herself, gripping her shirt. “I don’t want power! I don’t want to destroy things! There were boys in the field that day and I— _I—!_ I don’t want to hurt people again! And I burned _them_ too! That was _me!”_

Jaskier shushed her soothingly, wrapping her in his arms.

“No!” Ciri shouted. She shoved him away and scrambled back towards the house, away from the seared grass. “Don’t! It hurt before, I saw you! Don’t touch me!” She whipped this way and that, looking for somewhere to run. And then she spotted it.

“Ciri—wait!”

It was too late. She was already headed toward the beach. In a minute, she was in the water, scrubbing her hands with the wet sand, trying to soak herself from head to toe. Jaskier chased after her and he pulled her gasping from the water. He wiped her face with his sleeve so that the sea did not sting her eyes. She peered up at him, her eyes already red and puffy. Despite her outburst, she clung to him, hands wrapped around his forearms to brace herself against the waves.

“I … I’m scared. I don’t want to hurt people. I’ve already seen so many people hurt because of me. And this isn’t a fight; I can’t control it. What if I hurt _you_ or myself?”

“You might,” he said. He pulled her to him, hugging her close. “Accidents happen, and you can’t stop them all the time, but you can’t be afraid of yourself. This is just another thing we’ll have to get through.”

Ciri buried her face in his wet shirt as another wave rolled against her back. The water was cold, grounding. “Am I not human?” she asked in a weak voice.

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully.

“Will the believing still work if I’m not human?”

He picked her up and cradled her in his arms. “Yes. It might not have that human magic of making words true, but if you believe in me, I can do anything. And what’s more, I believe in you, Ciri. Everything will work out for the best in the end. I promise.”

As he trudged the both of them back over the wet sand, he ran a comforting hand over her back. “Let’s take this one thing at a time. First, we’ll get you some breakfast. We’ll have something cold, yes? I’ll have the cart serve up some cured ham and cheese, and we’ll have orange juice. Does that sound good?” He felt her nod against his shoulder. “Good. Then we’ll have a nice cold bath and get you into something soft and dry. If you like, you can head right back to bed afterwards; it’s been a busy morning for you and there’s no shame in going to sleep and starting again in the afternoon. Later, we can do a little magic practice if it’ll make you comfortable. I know a little bit about fire magic from watching Geralt. We can start small in the fireplace, burning twigs. There’s no rush. I just don’t want your first experience with magic to put you off of it forever.”

“We’re pushing the rugs far away,” she replied, muffled in his cape.

“I say that’s sensible. Safety first, always.”

“Is the cart alright?”

They reached the field and Jaskier saw the cart bumping up against the vines, awkwardly attempting to make its way back inside with the pitcher on its bottom rack. “It’s stuck, but I’ll fix it. Our dear friend is no worse for the wear. Perhaps a little sooty. I’ll wipe it clean.”

Jaskier hefted Ciri higher up and wrapped her arms around his neck to free one hand. With it, he managed to lug the cart up over the mess of vines and back inside the house. It followed them back to his room, rolling close beside Ciri, close enough that her foot tapped against its glass top. A bath was already waiting for them, and a nightgown was draped over the chest in the usual place, alongside her new robe and slippers. Jaskier set her down beside the tub and turned away to give the cart instructions while she undressed and climbed in. Then, he spent a long time washing and combing out her hair. It was less for cleanliness’ sake and more for comfort. The cart returned with a fresh pitcher of juice and their breakfast. They had a glass each before they considered eating, and before Ciri even began thinking about getting out and being dry again.

Her fingers were wrinkled and pruny when Ciri at last consented to get out of the water. She dressed and put on her robe, after which Jaskier rubbed her hair dry. They had breakfast bundled up in bed. Jaskier talked gently to her about all the wonderful things she might do with fire, determined to show her the good of it.

He waxed poetic about campfires and great dining hall fireplaces, of bonfire dances and candles used to chase away monsters from children’s bedsides. He talked about pretty night-lights and cozy cottages, Jack-o-lanterns, streetlamps and evening walks. For her, he painted pictures of the great forges of the dwarves who crafted the hammer of the Norse god of thunder, and of the fires Hephaestus used to heat and draw the metals with which to make jewelry for his beautiful wife. And as Ciri began to fall asleep, he whispered to her the story of Hestia and her duty to the cozy hearth. Without the warm fires of the hearth, a house would not be a home. There would be no warm stews in winter, no fresh harvest bread in the fall. A little fire was the closest thing to the warmth of a human heart, and whatever they were, at heart they remained human.

After the initial shock, Ciri was herself again, or perhaps in denial. It was hard to tell with her. She was a good bluff, but children were remarkably adaptable in his experience, and Ciri had already been through plenty worse. They’d have to address it further eventually, but for now it was best to let her be the one to decide when and how. Right now, she was running across the field, waving a smoldering stick and shooting sparks from the tip like fireworks in dramatic turnover. It was a remarkable recovery, if it was genuine. At least part of it seemed true.

When Ciri was little, she’d loved to pretend that she was a mighty sorceress, mixing potions from mud and leaves and things mushed together in a bowl. Now she had a magic wand and was laughing maniacally, trying to make the flame different colors. She managed to make a startling red before the flame at the end of the stick died out.

“Jaskier!” she shouted, popping up behind him. “Let’s do fencing practice with these!” She held up two new sticks with charred ends. Little embers crackled inside, betraying the fire within. “Look, if you hit them together like this, they make sparks! Isn’t it brilliant?”

Jaskier stared as Ciri clashed the two sticks together above her head, sending a spray of sparks up into the air. He’d been watching her run around for at least half an hour, strumming the lute in thought. It was a calming, familiar thing to hold a lute again, and it felt so natural, even with all the plants growing around him. He was practicing carefully now that he’d had a good meal, and it wasn’t as exhausting as before. He managed to grow himself a natural hammock and two stout trees from which to hang it, and he was swinging peacefully in it now, growing a variety of different vines and creepers from the trees’ branches.

“I marvel at your uncanny ability to accept changing circumstances so readily,” he said, somewhat hypocritically. “What manner of terrifying creature _are_ you?”

“A godling, so you’ve told me,” she replied. “Come on, it’ll be fun! Besides, wasn’t it you who suggested using pointy sticks eventually to get me ready for real swords? Something about smaller consequences preparing me for greater ones?”

“A scratch from a pointy stick is _very_ different from a burn from a _flaming_ stick. Snuff that out this instant before you give me a heart attack! Child, you mean to be the death of me. No more fencing, no more fire, and no more antics today—and I _mean_ it.”

Ciri pouted as she stuck her sticks into the dirt, putting out the flaming ends. “Killjoy,” she grumbled.

“I’m sorry, but I’d rather not have to explain to our host why there’s a smoldering pile of ash where his house used to be when he gets back this evening. Besides, I’d like him to be in a giving mood tonight—a mood for talking. He might be able to tell us a little more about your powers. I’ve been thinking, and if he knew us before, he can be a valuable source of information for our training. He likes you. He might even help oversee your teaching if he thinks it’ll help him bond with you.”

“It’s not a very good plan, but at least it’s a plan,” Ciri relented. “I’ve been thinking too. Last night before I fell asleep, I had an epiphany. We need a place with lots of supplies where we’d be free to stay a long time in hiding where nobody will try and look for us, right? I wondered where someone might go where nobody else goes. Then I realized, nobody would ever bother a witcher. We could go to the wolf den.”

Jaskier blinked. “To Kaer Morhen?”

“Yes. Don’t you see? As Geralt’s child Surprise, they can’t turn me away, and they certainly can’t turn away his … _bard,”_ she said, smirking behind her hand. “Geralt has to go there eventually, so it’s the perfect place for him to find us. And if you-know-who ever comes knocking on the gate, we’d have a whole host of witchers to help us fight! Not that we’d need to. By then, I’m sure Melitele or someone would have heard what happened and they’d sort him out, especially if we can get the Wind to send the message. What do you think?”

“I think,” Jaskier said, choking with pride, “that you’re a genius.”

“I know.” It was said with perfect, confident nonchalance.

Jaskier leaned back in his hammock, rocking himself with one boot in the grass. Today they’d made significant progress. He tilted his head back, admiring the dense canopy of the oak tree he’d willed into being. It was thick and strong, though it had taken him an hour to grow. Just a bit more practice, and he was sure he could do it, especially now that he’d found the link between his music and power. He was already composing a song in his head for their daring escape! It would inspire the great stalk to grow down to the earth below with such vivacity, it’d grow faster than a wild, galloping horse in an open plain! And now they had a direction.

Jaskier sneaked the medallion out from under his shirt and smiled, running his thumb along its face. He wondered how he might go about returning yellow to the world. It _was_ his intention to do so, if he could. “I may not be able to let anyone else _have_ the color, if the contract is absolute, but I wonder … I wonder if I might _share_ it.”

He looked at Ciri. She was sitting in the grass snapping her fingers, making sparks. Her hair was pure white without that hint of yellow. It had always been pale blonde, but now it was indistinguishable from that of Geralt’s own snowy hair. It’d make an interesting experiment.

“Ciri?” he called.

She perked up, attentive.

Jaskier set the lute aside and began walking toward the house. “Come with me. I have something I want to try, and I need your help.”

“Is it something magic?” she asked. She hopped to her feet and trotted behind him. She reached out her hand and took his as they walked inside together.

“I notice there’s orange in your room,” he said. “Orange is made of yellow and red. It shouldn’t be possible for you to have yellow, but I instructed our fine fiend to put orange in. I think that made it possible for it to be there. I’d like to find your hair color and try to return it to you if I can. I think it may be a step forward to undoing some of this mess.”

“Do I have an altar room now too, you think? Since I’ve got powers.” When swapping their tales, he’d told her about the house and the altar room, and she’d been expecting a visit sooner or later, though it had slipped her mind in the afternoon’s flurry of events.

“Maybe. I haven’t explored much of the temple. If I got too familiar with it, I’m worried I’d become _used_ to it. I’m already too used to my own room. Mostly, I stayed in the gardens. If I did too much wandering, I might find his chambers, and believe me, he’d be all too delighted to find me there for reasons I don’t feel comfortable discussing with a child.”

“Because he would think you’d want to fuck,” she concluded.

Jaskier squirmed and covered his ears. “Don’t _say_ that! Good gracious, what has Queen Calanthe exposed you to!”

“Jaskier, how old do you think I _am?_ I _know_ about sex—I’m almost thirteen for crying out loud.”

“And _I’m_ the one doing the crying out loud,” he whined. He swept her up, cradling her in his arms as he sniffled pathetically and patted her hair. “You’re not twelve; you’re a baby of three. You run around in bloomies and catch frogs to put in my morning teacup. You call Cintra ‘Zinta’ and you wipe your runny nose on my nicest shirts when you toddle up for a hug.”

Ciri rolled her eyes as Jaskier smooshed her face to his. “You’re the reason the gods gave me such violent grandparents,” she mumbled. “You’re sickly sweet and doting enough to balance them out. Put me down already, you delusional cock.”

Jaskier gasped and nearly dropped her. He placed her on the ground and stood with his hands to his hips, scowling down sternly. “Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon! You can say the _‘F’_ word if you _absolutely insist,_ but I draw the line at the _‘C’_ word. You’re not allowed to use it until you’re sixteen—preferably twenty. Do I make myself clear, young lady?”

Ciri blinked, her lips pursed in surprise. Her eyes were wide, looking up at him, and she stood stiffly in place. She nodded ever- so slightly. It was very clear she did not expect Jaskier to ever use such a parental tone of authority. Then, she snickered. They were nearly to the altar when Ciri asked, “Can I still say bitch, shit, bullocks, and bastard?”

Jaskier had to close his eyes for a full minute and brace his head against a pillar.

Ciri strode past him and stood in the entrance of the altar room, admiring the chaotic pile of junk in the center of the room. “Is this really all the yellow in the world? I thought there’d be more of it.”

“Unfortunately, there is.” Jaskier knelt down by a smaller pile off to one side. He picked up a tiny dried bundle of tansy and tossed it to the side. “I tried to organize everything last week, but each time I pulled something from the pile, no matter how much I removed, more things appeared on the other side. Now I have all these little piles of things scattered around the room. I’ve given up on trying to organize any of it. It kills me to leave everything such a mess, but there you have it. It’d be so much simpler if I could just send it all back.”

“How will we find my yellow in all of that?” she asked. “It could be at the very bottom of the pile for all we know. Even if we did happen upon it, how would we know that’s what it was?”

Jaskier held the medallion between them. “I’ve thought of that as well. Do you see this? I knew exactly who this yellow belonged to the moment I saw it. It’s Geralt’s gold: from his eyes.” He let her turn it over in her hands and it occurred to him that it was the first she’d ever really seen of Geralt. The real Geralt, that is. Not that Love was at all comparable.

Ciri passed it back. “Did you recognize it, or is it magic?” she asked. She picked up a spool of embroidery thread, tossing it and catching it in the air.

“Magic, but even without it, I’d know these eyes anywhere.” He cleared his throat and tucked the medallion back under his shirt. “Anyway, I think the shapes have meaning. The medallion is round like an iris, and obviously a coin because of my famous ballad—it could hardly be another shape if _destiny_ has any taste. Looking through some of these, I’ve learned that the toys generally belong to children, resembling their favorites, or they’re tokens belonging to the young at heart. There’s a pen here somewhere from a queen whose greatest accomplishment was a peace treaty between nations … ah, this bottle has a yellow spice from the baker’s home country! I have no idea what it’s called. I very much want to try it, but I have no idea how to cook with it. All of these things have a history behind them, and I know them. For you, I’m thinking it must be something summery—maybe a summer flower? A wreath of marigolds? Maybe a basket of oranges, since you love them so much. Or a tiara, since you’re a princess, after all. But you _are_ the Lion Cub of Cintra, so it might be something with a lion emblem or a crest. Hm … there’s a lot of symbolism associated with you. This may be more difficult than—”

“I found it!” Ciri cheered.

“You wha—?”

Ciri held up a pastel ribbon, almost cream in color. She presented it to Jaskier proudly, bowing with mock flourish. “Don’t you think it’s the right color?”

Jaskier’s jaw went slack and he stammered as he felt the satin between his fingers. He saw the image of a little girl, practicing tying bows in her hair in the mirror, heard her grunting and groaning as she redid them again and again until she grinned at her reflection. “But how did you _know?”_ he asked.

“Remember that one year you came to visit me and I was crying because they put pins in my hair and it hurt? My favorite ribbon had come unravelled and my grandmother decided it was time to do my hair like a ‘proper young lady’ should. And this”—she snatched the ribbon and waved it in the air—“was that ribbon! It even has the pearl.” She reached behind and started braiding up her hair. “When you tie it in a bow the right way, it sits in the middle. My grandfather told me he traded for it with a mermaid when he was nineteen. I thought if I wore it into the ocean it’d give me a tail, but I never got to try in the end.” She dropped her hands and turned around for Jaskier to see. “How does it look? Did I get it in the middle alright?”

But as she turned, the braid came loose. Her yellow hair spread over her shoulders.

Jaskier snapped up a gold mirror from the pile and shoved it toward her excitedly. “It’s gone, but take a look at yourself; you’ve got your color back!”

“I have?” Ciri smiled at her reflection. “It worked! Jaskier look at it, it’s yellow!” She twirled and gathered her hair in a bundle, stroking it happily.

“And there’s no sign of the ribbon as far as I can tell. I’ll strike a new bargain with him tonight, since it worked, to put all ‘my’ yellow belongings where they were found.” He set his hands on his hips again, triumphantly. This was excellent news! Flowers were back on earth, and soon, yellow would be too. The world would be just as it was before the whole fuss started, and when they made their escape, there’d be no loose ends to tie up. All it took was a little nit-picking at the proper wording of the contract. All the yellow in the world might still belong to him as much as a landlord might own a home, but it would be sent back into the world for the people’s use, like a tenant farm. Let a newfound appreciation for the oft- overlooked color be the rent paid, and not a coin between them!

“Even if you recognized it from experience, you’re still a frightening thing, spotting that ribbon so quickly,” Jaskier said.

“Call it a gift. I have a knack for finding things. I was always quick to find you when we played hide and seek, wasn’t I?”

Jaskier huffed. “Only because I let you win. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly to play hard with a child.”

“Tell yourself that if it makes you feel better,” she replied, grinning. Then, she started to look through the piles of bric-a-brac. There were so many interesting things to examine. Picking up a bolt of cloth, she asked, “What do you think would happen to the colors if they were damaged before they were returned? If you dyed this cloth another color, or stained it, ripped it, would it stay yellow later? Could it _be_ tainted or changed at all?”

Jaskier hummed, looking at the careless piles. “I wish I’d had that thought before I started tossing things around. Hopefully nothing _is_ broken,” he mumbled. He wished not for the first time that there were a sorcerer around to answer their questions. For now, he decided to be careful handling everything in the future. Starting with where he stepped. Jaskier guiltily nudged aside the pieces of a broken teacup saucer and hid them under one of the many rugs. Time to be getting along!

Jaskier tip-toed around the litter on the floor and began to guide Ciri firmly from the room. “Better not linger here, lest we make more of a mess than we found it!” he said with a nervous chuckle. “When you think about it, none of this is really ours to be touching and playing with in the first place. I’d hate to hear a prayer later from someone, complaining their great grandmother’s fancy dishes have gone pink or turned into a mosaic because of a little mishap on our end. Let’s return to someplace where our messes are sure to have less dire consequences. In fact, we’d better clean up the mess we’ve already made! Most of it may have burned up, but there’s still a pile of ash that needs sweeping on the floor of your nice, new room. After that, I’ll get to work drafting my latest bargain. In the meantime, you can still try sending your prayers for a rescue.”

_“Please, help us.”_

“I didn’t mean now,” Jaskier said. “But I suppose prayers are loudest at a temple altar.”

Ciri tilted her head back. “I didn’t say anything.”

They both stopped just before the corridor. Jaskier craned his neck back to look into the chamber. The voice had come from inside the altar.

Slowly, Jaskier moved Ciri behind him. His eye roamed until he caught the hilt of a sword sticking out among the piles. He pulled it free and stood defensively, one hand out to motion Ciri back. “Who’s there?” he asked, trying to retain a façade of calm.

Then, the voice spoke again, and he found he recognized it. His sword clattered to the ground.

 _“Everyone’s yelling today. They’re all angry about the fields,”_ the little voice continued to pray. _“My uncle came to visit from the mountains and he and Mama have been whispering all day. He’s been to every town, and nothing will grow in the mountains, the plains, the woods, or the fields in the towns. Even Mister Green’s garden won’t grow things, and he’s called Mister Green. Pa says I don’t have to be scared. As long as I keep praying, he says things will be alright. Gods listen to good children who do their chores and pray every night, so I’ve been watching the chickens and praying like he says, and eating Grandma’s pickles—even though I hate the onion ones. We’re eating lots of pickles. I like some pickles, like the plums and cherries, but we don’t have any more of them. We’ll have to wait until summer.”_

Jaskier felt Ciri shaking his sleeve, but he did not move. His ears felt like they were full of cotton once more, and her voice was far away. He was rooted to the spot, listening. His eyes were open, staring at the clutter in the chamber, but he saw none of it. He saw only a figure in a window, bent over a little box of dirt in the sill.

_“Please hurry up and come, Spring. I miss my daffodils. Everybody’s waiting for you, and they’re unhappy. If you came tomorrow—if we woke up and everything was green again, people would be happy, and it’d be summer next, and we could have cherries.”_

Again came the flood of prayers, deafening, desperate, and he was drowning in their voices as before. He saw their hollow cheeks, their glassy eyes. It was worse now. Before, he could only hear them, and they’d been scarcely more than whispers. This time, he saw for himself firsthand the horror his absence had left behind. His mouth went dry, his throat was tight with unspoken apologies he could neither form nor offer. This was all wrong. He’d paid the price to reverse the curse! They should have their crops … their dandelions …

“Jaskier!” Ciri shouted. She tugged his arm, nearly wrenching it from the socket.

He stumbled, blinked, and his head began to clear. With a deep breath, he came to. At some point, he’d stopped breathing.

Ciri stared into his eyes, yellow hair draping across her face. She looked frightened. She felt the breath against her cheek as he tried to speak. “What was that?” she asked, straining to listen.

“It didn’t work,” Jaskier repeated, voice frighteningly low.

“What didn’t work? Are you talking about the de—”

“Ciri, go to the room, please,” he interrupted. He unclasped his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. “I’m about to have a _chat_ with Love, and I’d rather you were out of the line of fire. I also fully intend to use several words I don’t want you getting in the habit of repeating.”

At the mention of his name, the air began to move. The Wind was coming to his call.

Ciri hesitated only a moment, seeing the shift in Jaskier’s expression. Then, she tore down the corridor, cloak trailing behind her. She met with an invisible force on the way out, entering the chamber behind her from the many open archways that lined the hall. She stayed only to watch the currents whip around Jaskier who stood like a stone pillar, his hands fisted at his sides. Then, she was gone, running back to the familiar suite.

 _“LOVE!”_ Jaskier bellowed like a roar of thunder.

The Wind whirled against the power of his voice, reflecting it, forcing banners and flags to wave violently. Objects from the unsteady piles tumbled like ancient rocks from the edge of a crumbling cliffside. Toys, books, stools, fans—all manner of items came cascading down in an avalanche around his feet, but he stood immobile. He would not be knocked aside.

Then the Wind settled to a mild gust, swirling around him and back, playing its role of relay between him and its master.

“There are only a precious few hours before I return for the night,” Love said, voice carried on the Wind. “Is it something so urgent?”

“It was already urgent days ago—or weeks! God, someone give me a damn calendar!”

“The house provides for you while I am away in order to avoid these trifling interruptions. There will be one on your wall, if you wish it. I thought the clock was already a strange addition; I’ve never known a god so concerned with time. Is that all you wanted me for?”

“Forget the calendar and listen to me you double-crossing, snake-tongued, mediocre mimic! You son of a whore-monger—you _leasing-monger!_ You said you’d return the flowers to the world. Why am I still receiving prayers from the _starving_ masses? The crops should be growing again, now that they’ve got the means back. You said returning the flowers would help!”

Love spoke again and his voice sent a feral chill through Jaskier’s blood. “I never said it would help,” he retorted. “I only said that their return could be arranged.”

“You _cheat!_ You lied to me!”

“I cannot lie. What I said was true: you oversee the growth of the earth and nature does the rest. I said I would return the flowers exactly as I found them, and they were not blooming when I found them; they are waiting for you to bring them into bloom, just as before. The only trouble is, you aren’t there to oversee it. You couldn’t possibly make every individual plant grow on your own—I spoke true—but you must be below for them to sprout at all. That is why Spring does not reside in any godly realm while in blossom, but home among their beloved creations. And it hardly matters: at the time you asked to join me below, you had not learned to use your power to the needed extent to govern nature in its work. It would’ve been pointless for you to come down.”

The Wind blew harder as Jaskier gnashed his teeth. He reached out into it, clawing at it as though he might claw at Love’s neck. It felt almost solid in his grasp. “Get ready for a night without sleep,” he hissed. “The moment you get back, you’re turning the fuck around and taking me out with you. I’ve been learning, and whether or not I’m ready to make things grow, I intend to do what I can. I will _not_ let the earth die for this abominable attempt at romance. And we’re bringing all this yellow with us. If it belongs to me, I can decide where I put it, and I want to put everything back where it came from. I’m keeping to the contract that way; there can be no argument.”

“Very well. We’ll discuss it over dinner.”

Jaskier howled with empty laughter. “Have you got bats set loose, flapping about in your attic? There’s nothing to discuss! And there’ll be _no_ dinner. The moment you get back, I said. We’re _going_. It’s a working night tonight, and I won’t stand for your excuses. Those people have waited long enough and Spring is overdue!”

“There are terms to discuss,” Love said quite calmly, unperturbed by Jaskier’s rage. “What deal will you make for the return of yellow, and for a day below? It would be a heavy price for both, or a smaller price for either. Regardless, the cost will be the same in total.”

“How about I don’t rend your heart from your chest while you sleep?”

“I thought you needed me living. What was it you said? I’m your ‘security’ as it were.” Love chuckled and Jaskier could almost picture him. “I did wonder when you’d finally threaten violence. That signals progress. Once that is gone, you’ll be much sweeter for it, though I wouldn’t get comfortable making such heedless threats. You must remember: you _are_ in _my_ realm.”

Jaskier scoffed. “You wouldn’t hurt me,” he said.

“No. I would not cut you or maim you, or violate you in any other violent manner. But there are other ways with which I might convince you to be more cooperative. I know every heart, and I know how to hurt it without spilling blood. Tell me: how is darling Ciri enjoying her room?”

Jaskier’s eyes widened, then he shut them tight against the Wind’s drying sting. He clenched his hands at his side. For all he stood resolute in the chamber, his arms gave him away, shaking. He grabbed his elbows, arms folded together to try and stop the shake. All he needed was to return everything, then they could run off to a place where Love could never hurt them. One day, two, maybe. And he’d promised he’d keep Ciri safe.

“What do you want?” Jaskier growled. The words tasted like bile in the back of his throat.

“For the return of yellow, I want a kiss every night after we’ve finished our dinner, before we retire for the evening. A goodnight kiss, if you will.”

“Done. And for bringing Spring? What will you have for that?”

“You will join me in bed.”

“Go sit on someone else’s cock, you fuck!” Jaskier yelled, batting at the Wind. “You’re a century too soon to be asking that. A coupling comes at the very end of a courtship, and you promised me in those exact terms!”

“Please, Jaskier,” Love hummed. “As if I’d ask anything so untoward. I simply want you tucked up peacefully in bed, sleeping as before. With a few exceptions: firstly, that it will be my bed this time round. Secondly, that _I_ may hold you as I like. And thirdly, that it shall be nightly, not a one-off instance. I slept so well that night, I should like always to be so lucky.”

“Forget it! I don’t want your wandering hands and your rotten breath on my neck,” he spat.

“Very well. I’ll give you a few days to consider it.”

 _A few days?_ “Wait—! Can’t you think of something else you mi—”

“We’ll speak more on this later. I simply _must_ get back to my work. You’ve been a distraction, my dear, and I _do_ have a job to attend to. Now run along and enjoy yourself. I’ll see you at dinner.”

“No! You can’t just leave! I’m not finished with you!”

The Wind rushed around him, drowning out his call. He tore at it, even as _it_ tore _back_ _,_ pushing him this way and that. Desperately, he tried to grab it, to pull it back and make Love listen to him. The people could not wait a few days! His fingers were cold in the biting Wind, but still he tried to claw it back to him. Forget the gusts and gales! Forget the squalls and storms! Four Winds and not _one_ would have pity, not even the smallest, gentlest of breezes—not a mild spring zephyr.

Amidst the beastly bluster, something soft, something warm brushed against his chilled fingertips. Jaskier opened his eyes and gasped, his lungs filled with the biting air. Even as his voice died in the noise, he called out to it, the smallest of the four. _Zephyr!_

It lingered, wound around his wrist as if it had found its home in Jaskier’s touch, but before Jaskier could close his grip around it and ask it to stay, it was ripped from his grasp and blown away with the others. He reached after it, stumbling to follow it out the corridor, but it was a useless effort. He fell to the floor, pelting it with his fists as he grunted his fury to the empty hall. He’d held it! For just a moment, he’d held it, and it had known him. He tried to call the Wind again, but it was gone, and he knew Love would not allow it to return. Not tonight.

But Jaskier realized something as he sat on the cold tile. He didn’t need to argue any further with Love. The return of yellow was now bargained for. The flowers were already below, awaiting his care. He didn’t _need_ Love to take him back down to earth.

He straightened upright and pulled himself to his feet again. Once he was below, he could spread the spring on his own. They were _leaving_ —he didn’t need permission or favors. He’d allowed himself to forget. But not anymore.

He strode purposefully through the halls. As he did, a little smile found its familiar place on his lips. It was one he hadn’t felt for a long time. As he burst through the doors of his room, his eyes glimmered with the old flame of mischief and revenge previously known only to a certain troubadour of Cidaris, and one small girl who jumped to her feet and raised a black-ended stick at his unexpected entrance.

Ciri paused, seeing the wild look in his eye and his haggard appearance.

Jaskier grinned back at her. “Tonight, after dinner, we leave,” he said.

Ciri nodded. The end of her stick reignited, and she, too, caught the spark in her eyes.

“What do you say we raise hell for our host in the meantime? One last hurrah as poor house guests. After all, it can be _very_ difficult for a child with no experience to control the sudden appearance of her _magical powers,_ wouldn’t you say?”

Ciri smiled wickedly. “Let’s burn this place to the ground,” she replied.

Jaskier caught her up in his arms and kissed her. “That’s my girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess 10,000 word updates are just how it's gonna be from now on, huh.
> 
> Apologies specifically to DarkRose_9 and starofjems, to whom I said Ciri's powers would not play a part in the story. It was not willful deception. Ciri decided to go ahead and prove me wrong and I could do nothing at all about it. It doesn't affect the coming events, so I let her lead me down the rabbit hole this chapter. And anyway—it's fun. Go forth and wreak havoc, child.
> 
> Two ditties for my pretties! I hope none of you mind that I put the videos in the middle of the text, but I thought some of you might like to have it on hand during the relevant parts. If you prefer, I will edit them to the bottom of the page. I know it can also be distracting to the flow of reading for some. Call it an experiment.
> 
> As always, no beta, we die like men (idiots, all of us).
> 
> Finally. One more chapter and we get to the part with Geralt's song. The reason I wrote this thing to BEGIN WITH. God really is punishing me for my hubris. 84,000 fucking words just to get to that part. But at last, it's coming.
> 
> 5:30. I need to get on a proper sleep schedule...
> 
> -
> 
> EDIT 07/08/2020
> 
> Okay, I've been going through and editing all the chapters for mistakes but THIS ONE killed me inside the MOST.


	18. In the Wake of Destruction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who care about reoccurring musical motifs, I finally uploaded the music that goes to Jaskier's invocation song in Chapter 2, and it shares a motif with the song in this chapter. I'd take a listen to the invocation song first so you get the full emotional gut punch.
> 
> https://vimeo.com/424948601
> 
> And now, trigger warnings, and slight spoilers:  
> Blood / scratching.  
> Death mention (implied in a song).  
> Falling from a great height.  
> Blacking out.  
> Caging / imprisonment.  
> Descriptions of pain: throat.
> 
> 8732

“Dios, Danu _,_ and _Demeter,_ what have you _done?”_

Love gawked at the field, hands covering his mouth to suppress a cry of indignation. Before them stood the ravaged landscape in its irreparable glory. The earth was torn, split down the middle like a shallow canyon, and great burning brambles rose up into the sky. A thick tangle of dry, cracked briars wound their way into Ciri’s room, black and smoldering with embers. Her room itself was a wreck. The fine wallpaper was burned and curled downwards. The bed, the fine sheets, all the furniture lay scorched and demolished, and the room still sizzled in the corners. Outside, most of the grass had burnt away, and all the flowering vines that once covered the wing were rendered to ash. Jaskier and Ciri stood in the middle of the mess, carrying two buckets each, covered in a thick, smudged layer of grimy black soot.

Jaskier smiled behind Love’s turned back. Setting the house ablaze had been a success for many reasons. Firstly, it proved Love lacked total omniscience, or else he would have prevented the fire from spreading from the start. Second, it proved that the Wind was not always watching and listening in, or it would have sent word; their conversations were safe, private. Third, with Ciri’s room in disarray, she would stay the night with Jaskier again. If they were not divided by the long hall, that would make escape quicker and quieter. And fourth, it allowed them to knock Love’s nerves. An added bonus. Jaskier cleared his throat, his features a mask of scorn.

“Welcome home. We’ve nearly finished putting the rest out,” Jaskier said with tone.

“What did you do!” Love waved his arms at the blackened side of the house. Then, he waved them back at the pair and their buckets. “And that! With those pathetic buckets! Why didn’t you call for me; I could have blown this fire out in an instant!”

The excuse was already prepared. They’d begun planning since the moment the Wind left the temple. “I _did_ try to call for you, but you shut me out after our conversation, _remember?”_ Jaskier dumped his buckets on the dirt, let the water splatter and trickle out worthlessly. “That aside, I don’t know _what_ you’ve been feeding this girl, but she’s developing at an alarming rate. Really, what is _in_ those potatoes!”

“De—what are you talking about? Don’t change the topic so casually—look at my temple!”

Jaskier thumbed toward Ciri. “I didn’t change the subject at all. She _is_ the subject: the house, the potatoes …” then he nodded, looking back at her. “Show him, Sparkles.”

Ciri set down one bucket and snapped her fingers. A bright spark flew up from them, and a small flame hovered above her hand. She quickly quenched it in her other bucket.

“That …” Love trailed. He shook his head. “That has nothing to do with potatoes. You must have some latent magical talent if you’ve developed your godly powers so soon. It’s incredible. And without a drop of ambrosia to feed it.”

“It got a little out of hand,” she replied, looking up at the smoking house.

Love looked back over his shoulder. “Yes, it would, certainly. Jaskier’s early days were messy enough, and he had some semblance of control at the start.” Then he smiled. “This is cause for celebration!” he cheered.

Jaskier and Ciri both started. That was not the reaction they’d been expecting. They’d only had a meager few minutes to enjoy Love’s indignation.

“You’re not upset?” Ciri asked. It sounded innocent enough, like a small child who, having broken a glass, is surprised to find no punishment came after. That was how it came across. But the truth was much different. Ciri felt like she had just thrown an egg at a terrible actor in the theatre, only for them to scoop it up, scramble it in a pan, and eat it right before her very eyes, all with the most contented smile on their face.

“Hmm. I can’t say that’s altogether true,” Love admitted. “I _did_ put a lot of effort into designing your room, but it can’t be helped. It was my fault for keeping the Wind away. No use crying over spilt milk, and less use crying over something that can be fixed, unlike milk which once spilt is ruined forever. It ought to take less time now that I’ve figured out the proper layout—there are no fine details to ruminate on: no more guesswork and experimentation, and the foundation with the walls, floor, and ceiling still stands. That is, if you were satisfied with the room. This is your opportunity to speak up and add your own personal touches. Would another skylight suit you?”

“I burned down an entire _room,”_ Ciri emphasized, as if he hadn’t plainly seen and addressed the current state of disrepair. “And half the lawn! Not to mention the outside wall!”

Love sighed wistfully. “I remember _my_ first magical fit: I accidentally caused an orgy in the streets of Athens. It was such a scene.”

Jaskier overcame his own silent shock and clapped his hands over Ciri’s ears. “Please, let’s keep to _civil_ conversation while in the presence of impressionable children,” he insisted.

“Ah, Jaskier. Tell me about the rest of this mess.” Love pointed to the wreck of vines and thorns that covered everything.

“I had a magical fit of my own,” Jaskier replied. “You know, after you told me the world was still _dying_ and all. Then there were other problems to deal with after and I didn’t exactly have the time to clean up. Too busy with flames and such.”

It was a shame they truly did have to put some effort into quelling the fire, but it wouldn’t have looked natural for them to be found doing nothing. So they did enough to give the impression of an honest effort. Even the cart had helped, carrying buckets across the field toward the house, though it couldn’t struggle with them through the sand to reach the waters of the beach.

“Then rejoice. This display has been enough to convince me that you might surely allow the earth to flourish in full upon your return. Your power is strong enough, if those thick brambles are to serve as any proof. We might go down as early as tomorrow, if you like.”

Love looked at Jaskier, an expression of confidence in his very stance.

 _“Ciri_ can stay with _me_ tonight in _my_ room, and until the new one is repaired,” Jaskier said in response, making it absolutely clear where he stood on joining Love in his chamber that night, and any night in the foreseeable future. “If you’re looking for anything to occupy the rest of your evening, you might start with that. Or you could make good on your promise and return the yellow before dinner, since you’re so eager to collect on deals. You’ll get no advanced payment from me. There’s no reward before work.”

Love sighed. “I shall send the Wind now.” He snapped his fingers and a great rush of air pushed past them all, into the house and temple. It extinguished the remaining flames as it went.

“Gently!” Jaskier shouted. “I don’t want a single thing damaged!” A lingering breeze brushed sympathetically against his cheek, as if to assure him all the tributes would be handled with care. He reached up to chase the touch with his fingers and the breeze responded, twisting twice around his wrist before slipping away once more. But it had been deliberate. It had recognized him this time. It had _listened_.

“Were you very frightened, my child?” Love walked over to Ciri and emptied her bucket in the grass. He then took the other and placed them on the cart, shooing it away.

“No,” Ciri said. Love licked his thumb and went to clean a bit of soot from her face, but she swiftly stepped out of reach. She ducked behind Jaskier, glaring daggers at the deity.

“What’s the matter?” Love looked genuinely hurt and confused.

“I don’t want your spit on my face. That’s gross.” But it was more about whose spit than the act itself, which Jaskier had performed a hundred times when she was a small and sticky child, always covered in crumbs and jelly.

“Forgive me. This morning I startled you into hiding, and now I disgust you into it. I must do better in future to learn your likes and dislikes. Spit and surprises—I’ll remember. I would hate to begin on the wrong foot, and after such a hopeful introduction yesterday. I see now that, perhaps, I may have been pushy.”

Jaskier snorted.

Love rolled his eyes. “So far I’ve learned you do not enjoy being teased, and I’ve done more than my fair share of teasing since last night and this morning. I suppose you don’t wish to be treated so childishly either, having your face wiped clean for you?”

To confirm, Ciri wiped her own face with a wet sleeve.

Love looked back at the house, then at the two of them. He stood now a little more awkwardly in contrast to moments before. It was apparent he was not used to dealing with children, and their contradictory nature unnerved him. He scratched his wrist.

Then he noticed something.

“So, that’s your instrument,” Love said. He spotted the lute strapped so naturally across Jaskier’s back. “It seems you can still tell lies. Impressive. I would have assumed by this grand display that you had come into most of your power, but that human trick stubbornly remains.”

“It wasn’t a lie; _this_ is not _my_ instrument. I left mine in the woods when you abducted me. I’m very happy about that, by the way. Beyond measure. Loved it.”

“Sarcasm is not the same as lying,” Love grumbled.

“Yours are the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen,” Jaskier lied, glaring into his freakish pale red eyes as he spoke.

“There’s no need to be hurtful. I don’t imagine it’ll keep for much longer, so enjoy it while it lasts.” Love paused a moment, looking him over. “Did you sing?” he asked.

“No.”

Love hummed. “I suppose in a day or two, I’ll know if that’s a lie or not. All I have to do is ask again. You look miserable; you won’t have the energy for games and half-truths much longer. I predict you’ll be too tired for it very soon.”

“I predict I’ll sleep well tonight,” Jaskier countered. Oh yes, he’d sleep very well as soon as they were far enough away. He’d be ready for whatever games lay ahead. The first order of business would be to find a sorcerer who could teleport them to safety. If they had to travel on foot, Love wouldn’t have to search for them for very long. They’d already thought up new aliases they might live with while they waited for Love to be found out and subdued, lest the Wind try to find them with their current names. An argument could be made that they were entirely different people now. Ciri was no longer a princess. And Jaskier … he’d been a husk of himself for months.

“Come,” Love beckoned. “It’s been a harrowing evening. You’ll have an early night. Get yourselves cleaned up and I’ll have dinner prepared.”

Then he did something that shocked Ciri and Jaskier a second time. When Love turned around to step into the room, he tripped on one of the upraised roots that littered the yard. He fell forward and cursed as he hit the rough dirt. He raised up a cloud of ashes, all which came down in a white flurry over his regal clothes.

Jaskier looked at the raised cuff of his trousers and felt the hairs prickle on the back of his arms. The fine silk stockings Love wore had vicious runs up the ankle. The fabric there was torn and puckered, and there was a redness that suggested dried blood and new alike. Scratch marks.

A few stray hairs fell in front of Love’s face and he whipped them away. “These _wretched_ roots!” he snarled. He rolled over and sat upright, giving them a swift kick. He rubbed the ankle which had been caught, and Jaskier could see the effort Love took in trying not to scratch, locking his fingertips together. “Things aren’t painful _enough,”_ he hissed, “with the damn _shackles.”_

Jaskier rubbed his wrist at the use of that particular word. It stirred up a memory. A feeling. A strange tingle in his ankles and wrists. A force like shackles that grew hot when he tried to pull against them that day when Love stole yellow for him and claimed his kiss. “What does that mean, ‘shackles’?” he asked.

Loved tugged at his trousers as he stood, brushing himself violently clean. “It isn’t poison oak or ivy after all. It was a foolish idea in the first place to think that it might be. Let this serve as a lesson to you both: your first lesson about godly deals.” Love rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing a strip of pink, raw skin. It was blistered in places, and there were scabs as well.

Jaskier did not balk at the display. He’d seen worse from Geralt, fighting fire-breathing griffins. If anything, it was good to know that a god could bleed.

“I suspect I missed something,” Love explained. “I made two deals with you: one to bring every flower, and one to bring you all the yellow in the world. I suspect that somewhere on earth there existed still either a flower or something yellow that evaded my sight. It hasn’t hurt as much the last few days, but the dull ache persisted. I’ve returned the flowers that belonged below, and now I am returning yellow. By morning, all should be well again. But you must be very careful about the contracts you make. If you don’t fulfill the terms, the shackles will grow tighter and tighter. In enough time, it might mean your end. I was foolish to ignore it for so long myself.”

Ciri nodded. Jaskier merely stared.

Love held his meaningful gaze. “Shall we go to _dinner_ , Jaskier?”

Jaskier remembered his bargain. But he was not afraid. “Let’s,” he replied. He took Ciri by the arm and led her inside just as calmly as if he were taking her for a stroll in the palace garden.

When they’d washed and changed and had their dinner, Jaskier inspected the altar room. Finding it barren, he went out to the open field and leaned over the edge. Far below, he saw golden grass. Up above, pale yellow stars twinkled back. Satisfied, he gave Love a light peck on the cheek and wished him a good night. Love was disappointed to receive such a chaste kiss from the bargain, but contented himself that Jaskier had given it himself, without the need for force or even reminder, and he flattered himself about the fact for several minutes while Jaskier paid little attention to his rambling. Love wished them a good night in return and they parted ways for the evening. The lamps snuffed themselves as Jaskier and Ciri walked back to their room. Inside, only the light of the fireplace remained to guide them into bed. In the glow, Jaskier observed Ciri, looking despondent as she sat before the fire.

“You promised him a kiss every night after dinner,” she said. “If we were to leave, it might kill you. That’s what he said. Isn’t it?”

Jaskier ruffled her hair. “I thought you had a little more faith in me. Am I not a silver-tongued wordsmith? I know how to make deals with devils,” he boasted.

Ciri lifted her head. “Did you trick him somehow? You can’t lie in a deal, it doesn’t work. Your word is your word and you _have_ to see it through.”

“Oh yes, that’s true through and through! And I _did_ give my word, which I intend to keep.”

“Then, Jaskier how w—”

“I promised him a kiss every night after he and I have finished our dinner. But if I weren’t here at all—if the two of us don’t _have_ our dinner …” Jaskier chuckled devilishly. “I couldn’t be going against my terms, could I? Just as he returned the flowers, but never promised they’d bloom.”

Ciri broke out in a wide smile. “That’s it! You slippery weasel!” She clapped a hand on his back and laughed. “But just in case, you should get in the habit of leaving one last bite on your plate at dinner,” she added.

“A wise idea. Now let’s get packing. We want a good head start.”

“Do you think the house would tell Love if we asked for a couple water skins and supplies?” Ciri asked. She was on her feet immediately, ready to begin.

“Let’s not risk it. There are plenty of places to find water, and I’m a veteran traveller. With my new powers, I can summon up an orange tree if we’re desperate, and we can drink from its fruit. There’s no need to worry about food or water. What we need is warm clothing and something to sleep on. You get to work rolling up the comforter; you can tie it in a bundle with some of the vines outside. I’ll fetch our things.”

Jaskier slipped out the great windows and into the field. He went to the tree with the tangled roots. At his command, the roots unwound, revealing the precious bundle with their travelling clothes and Ciri’s boots. They dressed quickly and threw cloaks over their shoulders. Before leaving, Jaskier took the seashell and teacup with his flower and tucked them away in the bedroll they made. And that was it. Together they crept out toward the edge of the property, silent as a pair of shadows. In his hands Jaskier carried the lute.

Down below, the world was waiting. Jaskier took a deep breath, then he began to play. As he did, he recited a little poem. It wasn’t singing. Not really. But the vines did not seem to mind as they began to sprout around his feet, reaching outward to dangle off the side. He’d been thematic in this choice of lyrics, deciding that it would be best to use such a familiar story to encourage the vines to grow—one in which they had a titular role. Naturally, _Jack and the Beanstalk_ served as inspiration for his poem. But he could not help adding his own flair:

_Jack and Jill went up a hill when they were very young,_

_But Pa and Jill went very still before the spring had sprung._

_Ma and Jack lived in a shack with not a crumb to eat_

_’Cause Jill and Pa fell ’fore the thaw and rose not to their feet._

_So Ma and Jack their brains did wrack to find a way to live_

_And Jack and Ma with hands to jaw felt time fall through a sieve._

_Said Jack to she, “O mercy me! We must survive, but how?”_

_Said Ma to him, “The pickings’ slim; we’ll have to sell the cow.”_

_Jack took cow from field and plow to market to be sold_

_Ask him nice and yet the price would stay five bits of gold._

_But cow and Jack went tramping back for none would pay the fee_

_But O how queer! There did appear a dwarf on bended knee!_

_Said he to Jack, “Here in my pack, I carry magic seeds.”_

_“If you’ll allow, I’ll take your cow, and they’ll see to your needs.”_

_Said Jack to he, “The cow’s for thee!” and gladly took the deal._

_But Ma saw red, she smacked his head, and made the fellow squeal._

_But fell the night, and what a sight! She’d tossed the beans away_

_And where they fell, they grew—and well!—into the clouds next day._

_Now you and I know how the sky was home to giant’s lands_

_But I and you our own sprouts grew to take us from their hands!_

_Let Jack go up to steal himself a happily ever after;_

_And we’ll steal down and henceforth live in freedom and sweet laughter!_

“Jaskier, you’re a genius!” Ciri whispered, trying to contain her excitement and pride.

“Just call me, Jack-skier,” he whispered in reply. “Behold! The promised beanstalk to carry us home from the land of giants. Or kudzu vine, as the case may be—they’re quicker-growing and much more durable. Come along, princess; I think we’ve had our fill of this place. Shall we seek out our destinies elsewhere?”

Ciri nodded, a hand already reaching for the monstrously thick vines. Jaskier coaxed a few new vines into being and wrapped two of them securely around their waists and one around the bedroll, tying them off. As they began their descent, the vines slowly grew, ensuring they would not plummet to their untimely deaths as they attempted the arduously long climb.

“Next stop, Kaer Morhen! To the wolf’s den, away!”

The bedroll lowered faster than them, winding around the column of vines so as not to drift too far. They found they had to go around the vines as well, securing their place every few yards. If they slipped, it would be frightening to swing away into the open air from so high. More than once, Jaskier had to close his eyes a moment and pretend he was on solid ground. He clutched the medallion through his shirt. The memory of being on the dwarves’ path in Caingorn came flooding back to him, and he tried not to remember watching Borch fall to his death on the broken bridge. He saw Geralt dangling over the side, the swirling fog beneath them. Tonight was clear and he could see straight to the earth below. If either of them fell, the other would be able to watch them plunge the whole way to the bottom.

Jaskier shivered, suddenly losing his nerve.

A tug on his sleeve made him gasp and squeal at once. It was Ciri, looking twice as frightened. She was staring at him with large, white eyes, made uneasy by his own panic. “Jaskier?” she whimpered. “It’s fine, right? The vines will hold?”

He quickly swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yes, don’t you worry. Everything’s going to be just fine. The vines are magic, remember?” He thought of how to distract her and make things fun. “I have an idea: let’s pretend we’re the prince in Rapunzel, climbing down from a visit. What would he say as he’s climbing down?”

Jaskier made his voice silly and elongated his face in playful disgust. “‘Good heavens! All these split ends! They tickle at my nose! And these knots, these tangles! Have you never used a comb in your life?’”

Ciri managed to chuckle uncertainly. “‘I would have a better grip if you braided your hair: then I might have footholds! But it’s so straight and greasy, I fear I might slip to the—’” she stopped herself and bit her lip. “How about we pretend something else?”

“Let’s be Romeo, climbing down from Juliet’s window the night after their wedding,” he suggested.

“I don’t remember what his lines were.”

“That’s perfectly alright. We can make them up.”

Ciri cleared her throat. She climbed another step down the vine. “‘But soft! What vines from yon far ledge do fall?’”

“Good!” Jaskier lowered himself after her. “Now give me another line. Another step. Just look at the solid mass of vines, right here. They’re not going anywhere.” He patted the woody vines and tugged at them to reassure her.

Ciri took two more steps, focusing her eyes forward. “‘’Tis our escape! And Jaskier is the gardener!’”

“Iambic pentameter,” Jaskier scolded teasingly. “You’ll have to do it again.”

Ciri laughed and climbed back up. “If you say so.”

“No, no, get back down here! You’ve giving your vine slack, and next I’ll have that heart attack!” He reached out a hand behind her back to help guide her down again when he suddenly felt his cape whipping in the air. He gasped and pushed Ciri close to the vines. He dug his feet into the tangle and pushed his arms in, grabbing vines from deeper inside and clinging to them, Ciri trapped protectively between his chest and the column.

A violent wind ripped into the still night air. Below them, the bedroll flailed like mad. They could hear it beating against the vine stalk with a solid _whump!_ Ciri cut short a small scream as the entire stalk shook. Jaskier held tighter and pressed Ciri deeper against the vines and out of the wind. His cloak cracked and whipped against the ferocious gale. It caused his foot to slip once. The lute beat against his back with a discordant _twang_ that would be sure to bruise. Still, he held on for dear life, tucking his head against the shriek of the air. He knew this was no natural wind, and he knew the game was up.

In his desperation, he whistled. The noise was lost to the deafening roar, yet in the bite of the squall, something warm brushed his temple and lingered beside his ear.

“Zephyr!” Jaskier shouted. “Be my messenger! Fly to Melitele! To Lilvani! Find whoever can help us and bring them here!” he pleaded.

Ciri shrieked as the weight of Jaskier pulled away. She turned her head and watched him fall back, his vine snapping free. She reached out for him, her face contorted with terror. Jaskier reached for the vines dangling below and his arms skipped off their surface. His fingertips stung from the simple touch. As he fell, the lute crashed, bouncing in the current of _Wind,_ until it wrenched free, up and over his head. He gaped the moment Ciri’s grip broke free from the vines. As she fell screaming after him, he felt something like the cold, wet grip of a mermaid take him in its arms. But there was a rushing sensation, and there was nothing but the Wind around them. He felt something solid touch his face, then his breath stifled in his lungs.

The world went black.

Before he opened his eyes, Jaskier smelled something sickly sweet. He wondered how gods died. Could he die from falling so high? How godly was he, and how human did he need to be for the fall to crush his bones? And did gods ascend to another plane after death, or did they live in a void until their worship was reestablished? Was this scent the smell of a welcome wreath in a higher heaven, or a bundle of meadowsweet in a mortal baby’s nursery? He breathed it in, felt the strength of his lungs and the weight of his cape. The fur collar tickled his nose and he realized what a philosophical idiot he truly was—Geralt’s criticism was justified in that instance.

Jaskier bolted upright and wiped his bleary eyes. He opened them wide to search his surroundings, though his eyes felt dry and unwilling. The room was dark. He patted around with what little light could guide him, searching.

“Ciri?” he whispered. He heard nothing: no stirring, no breathing. More panicked, he groped at the soft ground, his hands brushing bare carpet. “Ciri!” he called, more frightened.

Then, the room filled with light.

Jaskier held his hand against the sudden glare. He grunted. Before his eyes fully adjusted, he caught sight of a looming silhouette standing before him, bathed and blurred by the harsh brightness.

“She’s perfectly alright,” Love said, stepping through the illuminated door.

Jaskier stumbled to him. His legs were shaking, likely from the strain of the climb and subsequent fall. “Where is she?” he asked. Even his voice trembled. But it was not with fear. Love’s voice filled him anew with rage.

“In her room,” Love answered. “It’s all been refinished, good as new. She woke up a while before you; I’ve only just come from my visit with her. She’s had her breakfast and she’s resting now. A very good girl: she didn’t breathe a word about the scene you made with the stalk last night.”

Jaskier could see clearly now. He was standing in a little sunken room, two steps down from the floor of a large, empty, unfamiliar chamber. There was a wall of bars in front of him, like the curved mouth of a cage in the queen’s exotic zoo. He swiveled round and saw more bars set around a large circle, all bending high in an arc at the top.

It was a birdcage.

Jaskier banged against the bars, growling. They clanged but remained firm. It was then he saw the yellow flowers twining, curling up and down many of the bars in long tendrils. He reached out a hand and thrust it toward Love, directing the flower’s attack, envisioning the lithe vines wrapping around his neck until it cracked, but not one of them stirred. He paused, gaping up at them, then swiped his hand again. He hoped to force the cage open by making the plants pull against the bars. Again, they would not move to obey.

Love was unamused. For once, his expression was pure stoicism. “It won’t work,” he chided.

“You shouldn’t even _have_ these,” Jaskier spat in reply. “You sent all the yellow back below, and all the flowers. And if you think I can’t make them grow strong enough to knock a few iron bars, you underestimate my spite.”

“It won’t work because these flowers suppress your gifts.”

Jaskier stopped.

Love lifted a hand to stroke a climbing tendril. “These are silphium flowers. Feel the bars: they’re covered in its oil for extra measure. These flowers alone belong to me, just as pomegranates belonged to Hades in another time, and the olive branch to Athena. Once, my flowers were roses, but they belonged to a very different Love.” He closed his eyes and chuckled. “I suppose it helps that the cage is forged of Dimeritium. One might argue that I’m being over-careful: I may suppress whatever magic I choose within my realm. I’ve already forbidden the stimulation of plant growth and fire with these,” he said, touching the yellow flowers, “but I couldn’t resist the romanticism of such a setting.”

Love winked at Jaskier, his smile returning.

Jaskier scowled back.

“You’re a proper songbird now,” Love continued.

“Piss off.”

“No.” Love began to stroll slowly round the cage, running a long finger against the bars. He flicked at the metal, made it ring like a wind chime. He conducted a playful rhythm. Then, sweetly he asked, “Sing me a song.”

Jaskier sat defiantly in the center of the circle, glaring at him. “Larks never sing when they’re captive.”

“But men will. So sing.”

“Inspire me.”

Love stopped his pacing and knelt in front of Jaskier. “What would inspire you?” he asked.

“Nothing you can provide.”

 _“SING!”_ Love demanded, slamming his hands against the cage. The bars rattled and Jaskier startled backwards, caught off guard by the sudden ferocity with which Love bellowed. A vein stood out against Love’s pale skin, blue and striking on the back of his hand. He was clutching the bars, his face pressed threateningly against them. Whatever games he thought he’d be playing with Jaskier during their courtship, it was clear he’d grown tired of them.

Jaskier eyed him through the bars. “You want my song?” he prompted.

“Yes.”

“More than any other?”

Love stared, made no reply.

“Bring me every song in the world. If you can do that, I’ll sing for you. But a new song is made every minute, so I imagine you’ll be preoccupied for quite some time. Maybe that will finally keep you out of my hair for more than an hour. Or better yet, you’ll leave forever, your task never done, and I’ll not have to see your face for another millennia. When the first starving city falls, when the first kingdom’s prayers grow silent, another god will rise. Either they’ll look for me or strip me of my title and have born a new Spring. The world will go on living and I’ll never need to feel shame for the neglect you forced from me. If I don’t die, this cage will eventually turn to rust and crumble in my hands, and I’ll be free, but time will never bring an end to song. You will spend the rest of your life collecting, and you will neglect your responsibilities and your need for rest, until one day, without a single prayer or word of praise, you will wither into nothing and give way to a new Love. On that day, I’ll sing the praises of the muses, skipping merrily to the underworld buck naked to piss on your grave. And Death, Hades, Winter, or whatever you call him will be there waiting for me with open arms to rub salt in your still festering wounds.”

Love grunted. “You paint a colorful picture,” he said.

“It’s my gift,” Jaskier replied.

“So be it. I will collect every song in the world, and you will sing for me.”

“Wait. I didn’t—”

“The deal is done,” Love insisted. “Let us see how you feel about it when the effects have played out in full.” He reached into a cluster of flowers and, as if from nowhere, retrieved the yellow-white shell Jaskier had packed away before their escape. He turned it over in his hand, admiring it. “It’s a bit small, but it might do. If a god of the sea can put the song of all the world’s oceans in every shell, there’s no reason I might not put all the world’s songs in just one.”

“Don’t think you’re so clever. Any two-bit mage can put a song in a shell. I’ve had one, in fact. It loses its novelty quickly.”

“I don’t care whether or not it pleases you,” Love replied. “That is not part of our terms.”

Jaskier watched as Love turned away, retreating from the empty chamber. The solid click of his heel echoed authoritatively with every step. The cavernous room only served to emphasize the solitude of such confinement, the smallness of the cage. Jaskier’s heart thrummed painfully in his chest, rapid, fluttering, as though he truly had become a trapped bird. He would not let himself believe it. He would kick and pry at the bars until his hands were raw with blisters. He would carve the very stones from the surrounding steps if they might break the cage. He’d dig a tunnel, raking and clawing until his nails were black from it. He would never let himself be beat.

But there was a chilling certainty in Love’s posture. It wasn’t victorious, nor was it indulgent and smug as the Love he’d known. Something had been decided in that moment: something so frightfully indifferent. Jaskier could hear it in Love’s walk, in his silence. It was something in the aftermath of Love’s parting words that rang like a shout in the chamber, and in the harsh clack of the door closing behind him as it shut out the light.

Jaskier was left alone in the darkness.

* * *

Geralt knelt in the cave, holding the scorched remains of what had once been a dragon’s egg, black and veined with red and gold scales of ember. In the shadows, it looked sooty and black. In the proper light, would it have been gold still? He guessed it was one of the many things he’d never know if nothing changed. Yellow was gone, and the answer with it. Though he no longer had to look at his yellow eyes and remember, the loss of it ached all the worse.

In time, would he forget yellow? He might live long enough. It might kill him to lose even the memory of the word. It was already hard enough to picture the color without looking directly at his dandelions, and they were so strange to his eyes where they’d once been common. He remembered objects: he remembered the honey was yellow, daisies, dry grass, autumn leaves, but he couldn’t see it clearly. The dragon’s egg had been a fascinating, shining thing, bright with promise. Now, it was only a dirty shell, and whatever had hatched from it, Borch had taken elsewhere.

Yennefer was nowhere to be found.

Geralt picked up a broken piece of shell and brought it outside with him. In the light, it still glistened. _Perhaps then,_ he thought. He’d like it to still be gold, if only for the novelty. He began to walk in search of Roach, ruminating as he went. Would Borch have taken his dragon form when he carried his newborn away, or would he have disguised himself and the child as human? There were a number of things he was curious to know. Jaskier would have a mad spree asking questions, jotting down every little detail to invent new songs. If anything, he might like the idea of the dragons travelling in disguises best, for it would make the most heartrending ballad.

“Refugees in every land! Strangers even to themselves, hiding behind a human mask!” he’d sing. “And imagine if the child grew to adolescence, never catching a glimpse of his own true face. Imagine the fear and sorrow, the tragedy!”

 _Or something like that_ , Geralt concluded with a grunt. He scrubbed the thick shell clean with the rough palm of his glove, trying to reveal the shimmering surface beneath the soot. It was an interesting material; it might be good for mail, or for jewellry. It’d be difficult to find a buyer who’d believe it for what it really was, but it might sell for gold. Then again, with these strange times, there’d be some discrepancies with gold.

Already people were taking advantage of the lack of color to conduct all sorts of schemes. There had been a more subtle change in one city’s fashions. People were wearing more silver rings, necklaces, and bangles, adorned with sapphires, rubies, amethysts. Gold looked like silver well enough, but true silver’s bluer tint was more fashionable. Had he known, he might have wondered how wide spread it was, and whether it might influence the worth of the precious metals—but he knew nothing of this change, being far from such things as they happened. If gold’s value was replaced with silver, it would make trouble for him and his kind. It would be harder to get the material to fix his swords. If they were truly so unlucky, gold would be left to the alchemists and their kind in a year or so—if they lived long enough to see such changes come to pass.

Geralt stared at the empty rock. His feet had carried him there to meet his heart, but it stood on the mountain alone this time, in the place where Jaskier had bared his. He should have listened then.

And there was Roach, lying nearby, staring as if to appreciate the view. She did not often lie down, except in sleep. Perhaps it had been too hard of a climb for her after so long on the road. Or perhaps she knew he meant to linger here.

Geralt walked to her and brushed the hair back from her muzzle. He gave her a gentle pat and removed her tack, then he peeled himself free of his armour. The dandelions stared up at him as he set them in the sun; the plucked dandelion was a little withered now and it stood out from the rest. He picked it up with care and twirled it between his fingers. Together with the lute case strung over his shoulder, he crossed to the rock and resumed his regretful place.

He sat now in the shadow of the hour where he’d sat before, staring at all the wrong choices he’d made. There were new choices to regret now—worse ones to mourn. Before, he’d merely regretted the loss of Borch and his Zerrikanian warriors, of Yennefer, and the comfortably familiar angst of general ‘witchering’ as Jaskier called it. Borch and the warriors were alive, but now he had the loss of other lives to haunt him, even if felled in the service of protecting innocent life. But on top of it all, he’d lost the one good consistency in his life.

Was Jaskier eating properly, he wondered? It might be difficult for him to find food during the blight. He had better be. It wouldn’t be fair of him to die first, and by starvation of all things.

_“Now’s the time to go out, visit those you care for, and mend mistakes. You might not have much of it soon.”_

He was _trying_. Gods above, he was trying. If he was so useless to fix the blight, he wanted to fix at least one mistake before it brought the world to its knees. What precious time he had was dwindling now, slipping through his fingers. How long would it take him to starve? His metabolism was astonishing, even if his heart was slow. In desperation, he could eat grass and other empty plants if it came to that, but that would only sustain him for so long. After that, he could still survive longer than a human without food, but it would be an agonizing ordeal. And there would be little point delaying the inevitable. His extended life would be a miserable existence if it allowed him to outlive the world.

The eggshell shone in the sun. What a frightening time to be born, so helpless and small and confused. Would the dragon child have been born early enough to see the missing colors, and would it mourn their loss? It would be too much for such a small thing to know that sorrow.

When had he last felt joy? There had been flashes of fondness: seeing the dandelions, smelling the oil, touching the strings of the familiar lute, but joy was something he hadn’t known for so long. Before the yellow vanished, before the blight. It was before the mountain, before Yennefer, and long before he ever met Jaskier. Pure, unbridled joy. He’d been a boy, and he couldn’t remember it now. Someone had stolen yellow from him early on and put it in his eyes where he could not see it, feel it, nor touch it.

Geralt lifted the lute case over his head, leaned it between his knees. He rested his hands on the skinny top as he stared out into the open sky. Evening was coming on, a half hour or so. It would be the beautiful golden hour, but soon, there’d be only pale red in the wake of its loss. He was sick. He was sick and tired and hurt and he wanted to scream into the wind the way he might roar in the face of a monster to let out his fear and frustration. But nothing would come of it. He felt so stupid. He had a plan and a direction. He had the breadcrumbs of a trail to follow to find Jaskier, but this small, insignificant setback beat down on his chest like a loss—not a mere delay. As if finding Yennefer would have solved everything so easily. Yet a part of him had believed, however briefly, that he might reach Jaskier in a matter of moments if he could only gain her help. He thought she was capable of nearly anything.

He sighed, tried to breathe the feeling out as if he had a lung of city fog. With one hand, he reached for the bare half of the rock. Solitude had made him understand just how much he’d been lying to himself about how right it was to be alone, and …

And …

Geralt lay the lute case on the ground and opened the clasps. He … he didn’t have Jaskier’s talent, cultivated by love and the passion of a life’s work, but he had a voice. And there was a piece of Jaskier tucked away in his heart. It had been singing to him all the while just as Jaskier always did: singing _of_ him, singing _for_ him.

He raised the precious lute and stood, facing the setting sun. The melody was already there, waiting. The jaskier: it was not one flower, but many. He missed them all. At first, he thought an attempt at composing might be the apology he needed, but would such a gesture seem genuine, or would Jaskier think he was being mocked? Speeches, songs—he kept as many drafts as Jaskier’s notebook. Even as he cast the idea aside, the song itself was a consolation. It was the very kind of thing Jaskier would keep tucked dear and safe in a handkerchief, folded up in his pocket for cold, cloudy days. No, it would not serve as an apology, but maybe one day, if he had the chance, it would serve as a memory.

He plucked the first string with the bit of shell and closed his eyes. The wind began to stir from the foot of the mountain. Good, let it carry his voice where it may. Let it take the ache along with it. And so he sang:

_I’ve gone and lost a friend of mine,_

_The world is lacking yellow._

_Wilts small the grandest celandine_

_For thoughtless boast and bellow._

_I’ve cast away a friend of mine,_

_The world is lacking yellow._

_The buttercups dry in the field_

_In longing for their fellow._

Though the color of the world had changed, the once- golden light was still warm against his skin. Even the wind could not beat out the sun’s embrace and he did not mind the cold touch of air. The wind whistled quietly as it came, but he hardly heard it, so focused he was on his song. The world was lost to him. Was that how Jaskier felt, flickering like a star in the tavern light, dancing beneath the great chandeliers of castle ballrooms? Everything heavy and barbed rolled off his tongue and was made light again, smoothed like a grain of sand in an oyster’s shell. It became a pearl. Was that what shining brought him? Even as it hurt, it healed. It was something honest.

_I’m wanting for a friend of mine,_

_The world is lacking yellow._

_Delphiniums turn ash and dust,_

_No more the flute and cello._

And how he wanted the chance to be honest. At least here, alone, he could try. He could practice honesty now where it wouldn’t have the power to wound him. Isolated on the mountain, it had no consequence, and there was nothing to fear and no one to listen but the wind, if it could even hear him over its own building crescendo.

_I’m aching for lost love fine,_

_The world is lacking yellow._

_No dandelion wishes will_

_Return his song so mellow._

The air rushed around him, curious and quick, but nothing more than a common gale. His voice was not yet lost to it, but regardless, he did not fear. He was not singing to be heard. The noise grew. Never mind: he knew the words.

_Now hear, now hear,_

_Now have no fear;_

_Forgive me, dear Jaskier._

He took a deep breath and sighed, having come to the end, but he was suddenly cut short with a strangled cry. Something cold reached down his throat and ripped the song from his lungs, leaving behind a hollow, ragged pain, as if a jagged club had torn him from the inside out. He tried to draw a raspy breath, falling to his knees, fingers to his throat. The lute dropped nearby with a loud knock and he heard Roach leap to her feet with a whinny of distress. The wind became vicious, encircling him and tearing at his hair, his clothes, leaving him no room to breathe. It ripped the dandelion from his hand.

There was a guttural sound like an enraged howl. Sand was everywhere, stinging his skin. He ducked his head under his arms and kept low, feeling the invisible power battering this way and that. Roach was too far to reach. The dandelions and lute were lost to the whirlwind and blinding debris. He did not move for fear of being blown over the side of the mountain. Then, with a final assault, the wind was gone.

Geralt waited for its return. This wind was familiar, though before it had been only a wave, moving purposefully over the open countryside. This time, it had stayed directly on him. It felt personal, which he knew was impossible, and yet somehow true, like a living, thinking thing.

What next? Blue? Red? Would it take sunlight or rain? Was the next victim 5 o’clock in the afternoon or children’s laughter? Would memory itself follow?

Geralt uncurled and opened his eyes as the winds tore away. Roach was lower down the path, looking up at him. His bags remained, as did the lute, lying lifeless on the ground. He brushed it off and put it back in its protective case. As he did, his fingers strummed against one of the strings, which failed to produce a sound.

He froze. For an instant, he thought he’d been injured somehow by the wind. Had he gone deaf? He snapped his fingers: a crisp, loud sound. He’d not. But upon strumming the lute once more, he found no music, just as if he’d plucked a slack clothesline. His fingers trembled as he tucked it away, thinking he’d broken it when it fell from his hands. He slung the case over his back then whistled for Roach. Again he was startled to find a missing sound. He whistled and whistled, but nothing came of it.

“Ro—!” He coughed, his voice rasping on the broken word. He tried again and managed to croak out a low, _“Roach?”_

Roach came slowly to his call, regarding him nervously. He soothed her and checked her as before. She had been spooked, but was otherwise unharmed. Such a brave girl, never afraid of monsters or hunting beasts—unafraid of known things. It was natural for her to fear something so unprecedented as these attacks.

“Shhh,” he shushed. He had to clear his throat again, the pain still lingering. “It’s alright. Good girl, good.”

She butted his shoulder with her snout and began to calm.

“Shall we stay in the cave tonight?” he asked. He hoped the fading smell of dragons wouldn’t prove too much for her. She needed rest. He’d like to go back down the mountain and get away from this place, but the light would be gone before they truly got started. They were both tired, and he didn’t want to risk a misstep. The cave was not far, and it was sheltered. The echo would warn them if the wind came back. There was not much he could do about the wind—if anything at all—but at least he might anticipate it and be there for her before it hit. Though he doubted it would return so soon.

The lute over his back, Geralt set to the task of collecting his things. He’d have to take two trips to get the bags and saddle into the cave. He turned to grab Jaskier’s first and inspect the dandelions for damage, but it was nowhere to be found.

“No,” he breathed.

The lute was lighter than the bag had been, yet the wind had failed to blow it away from the clear, flat ground. The bag had been in a pile beside the rest of his things; Roach’s saddle had even pinched the strap beneath it. There was not a speck of the dark, wet earth left behind, nor a single yellow petal. All traces of the bag and its contents had vanished into thin air.

“NO!”

Geralt dashed up and down the trail. He craned over the edge, searching for the impossible far down below, hidden by the clouds. He dropped against the rock. The one clue he had, gone as if it had never been. He gripped his shirt. That was when he felt the forgotten bulk. The peppermints. But they reminded him of something more important. He reached an apprehensive hand into his other pocket, afraid that it might be empty in the wake of the incident. Instead, he felt the tickle of a dandelion gone to seed.

Restraining the laugh that threatened to bubble out of his chest, Geralt placed both hands over the pocket protectively. He felt the day’s burdens lift, but he couldn’t allow himself to cheer just yet. Hope was not yet lost, but it was still fragile. It might not be enough. It _might_ be just enough. It didn’t matter. As long as he had a single white-tufted seed to cling to, he would go on.

The road down would be kinder. They’d start afresh in the morning. He’d seek out Aretuza once more, and if Yennefer was not there, he’d seek aid from one of the mages to contact her and let them try to solve the puzzle in the meantime. This would be the last dead end. He was determined not to run out of chances anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking FINALLY the song I wrote this damn fic for. I just hope it was executed properly. I've been sitting on this chapter for days contemplating if it was good enough, but I decided to say fuck it and post.
> 
> All the music has been now written! No more composing related delays. I will probably not be doing music for the Jack and Jill song, but there are other little scores to accompany the final chapters. Won't be long now. I think I'll post the full album early now that everything's together—not like instrumental scores can really be that much of a dead giveaway as to what will happen, even with the titles. I'll probably do that tomorrow (well, later today: it's nearly 5am, as always).
> 
> I considered ending this with Love's return to the temple, but I decided to be lazy. Besides, it would be a punch to the throat and y'all could use a break. It's a good time to be hopeful. I know many of you read fanfic as an escape from the 2020 hellstreak of chaos. I've been too exhausted to write to standard this week, so it's a little under the usual 10,000 clocking in at 8700.
> 
> And now, for politics. Black Lives Matter. Stay safe while/if you protest, and always have an escape route. Document whatever you can and back up your footage. Do what you can to be an uplifting voice in your community and stay informed. Take care of yourself. Don't give up the fight even as things begin to turn in our favor. A lot of change has been inspired by a single week—we can do so much more in a month, and even after that. Stay strong and look to the future.
> 
> EDIT 6/08/20:
> 
> I EMBEDDED THE WRONG FUCKING SONG I'M SUCH A DUMBASS!
> 
> EDIT 6/08/20 (a little bit later):  
> The accompanying album is now posted for download!  
> https://penncorner.bandcamp.com/album/an-all-consuming-creature


	19. QUATERNARY INTERMISSION - MEMES & DOODLES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy some meme edits and doodles! I'd nearly forgotten to do an intermission, but I caught myself in time! Every three chapters—as habit demands.

Potatoes / tomatoes are just gonna be a meme thing in this story. I love them.

^ Love, when Jaskier points out that people are gonna die if he uses them as a bargaining chip. ^

First impressions of Love tend to be accurate.

Love doesn't get on well with children.

This one moment from She-Ra inspired me to give Ciri that harp. Literally did it for the meme.

The cart has a name. Yes, this is canon. Also, this doodle came out very Weebl circa 2007 for some reason. Google it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update because I will not leave you in the dark about the story. The actual chapter ought to be up in two minutes after I post this.


	20. Cirilla Cinderfoot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11,756

For an immeasurable time, Jaskier sat in silence. There were intervals when his mind wandered far enough that he could not tell whether his eyes were closed and he was dreaming, or if they were still open and he was awake. Sometimes the blackness was pitch. Sometimes it was only very dark grey. Whichever it was, in dreaming or waking, black or grey, the stillness was absolute. He missed the ticking of the clock on his wall, having only his own breath for company. Even his thoughts seemed to echo unbearably loud and he was frightened someone might hear them, wishing for some other noise to distract him, or to cover them up.

Mostly, Jaskier thought about Ciri. Would she be afraid? Doubtless she’d be worried sick, and worry would make her defensive and smart-mouthed which frightened him more. Love could handle sass on a good day, but the way he’d left had Jaskier praying Ciri would be immaculately polite and reserved. He imagined Love doing the most hideous things, ranging from the less extreme punishments of sending her to her room without dinner, to the more inhuman torments of throwing her into the wilds below to watch her be hunted by the invaders from Nilfgaard.

He started reciting tongue twisters under his breath to keep himself occupied and chase the thoughts away. “White Wolf Winter witcher, White Wolf Winter witcher.” But even tongue twisters brought him back to subjects which he did not wish to think on. Ciri, again, for having strung the description together, then Geralt, being its subject.

It didn’t seem logical for Geralt to be Winter—not from a practical point of view. Geralt was fully grown, quite obviously not dead, or undead for the matter. But from a literary and romantic point of view, it was absolute. The white hair, the stony expression, and his cool countenance were perfect for the icy personage Winter was expected to have, but that would mean catching Love in a lie. It was a comfort to think a god could not lie and one that he wished to believe for his own peace of mind. It was possible Love was only mistaken, not lying: that he’d been wrong about Winter dying, in which case, Geralt _could_ be Winter.

Jaskier did not wish more destiny upon Geralt, but to imagine they had something more connecting them made his heart ache with the hope that destiny truly would bring him in all his force and fury upon the realm. Jaskier had sunken so, so low, and he was tired. Twenty years of helping, of caring for Geralt entitled him to just one act of help, did it not? If not for himself, then for Ciri. Whatever came of him, he wanted her safe.

Quiet footsteps from the corridor stirred Jaskier upright. He listened, curled against the farthest side of the cage from the door. A hand crept inside the cuff of his boot, poised, waiting as he watched the door creep silently open. The faint light outside was obstructed by the bulking shadow of a familiar silhouette.

He gaped.

There, in the doorway, he saw the outline of the studded armor. There, the shoulder pads he’d lifted a hundred times from their perch. He knew them as he knew his own lute. He’d scrubbed selkiemore guts from them, polished them clean of wild dogs’ blood, of mud, ichor, and a thousand unmentionable substances. Even by shadow, he knew them, and he recognized them before his eyes could adjust to see the rest. A minute passed but he did not look past the travel-worn clothes and the old boots, coated in clay dust from weeks on the road. He did not dare.

In many dreams he’d seen those boots walking towards him, seen those knees clad in black leather kneel down beside him, felt those gloved hands hold his. That stained black shirt had become wet with his tears time and again as he buried his face against it and wept like a lost child found. The sound of heavy footsteps echoed intimately around him. In his life, he’d only come to know four people by their step: his mother and father, Ciri, and Geralt. He could never remember it in sleep, but he heard it now so clearly. The cold, hard floor beneath that had made him sore in sleep, the dry taste of that sleep on his tongue, and the scent of the flowers, sickly, strange, mixed with the oils and metallic sting of the bars all told him this was no dream. It was all too true, not shrouded in the obscuring mist of sleep. Yet he could not hope to believe it until that voice reached out to him, lifting his weary soul to its feet.

“Jaskier,” it breathed.

The low rumble broke through the veil of despair and cracked the highest well in Jaskier’s heart. He sucked in a tight breath and held it, afraid that if he let it out he might blow the vision away. _It’s not real, it isn’t real, it can’t be real_ , he told himself. He tried to argue a hundred sensible things. How could Geralt have reached them in this place? How could he have known where to look? Those thoughts flew away and were lost in that voice—that wonderful, _wonderful_ voice that sounded like home when it made fun of his songs, when it told him to hurry up or be left behind, when it complained about wasting coin on a room in another inn along the road.

“Jaskier,” it said again, uncertainly.

And Jaskier was suddenly pressed against the bars, leaning towards the figure, trying to swallow him whole with blurry, wet eyes. “I’m here,” he said, voice gravelly with wear and exaltation. He’d remembered calling out to Zephyrus before being taken, and his heart hammered with a terrible hope. “Geralt? Geralt, is that you, really? Is it really you, or have I finally cracked?”

He was every inch of him as Jaskier remembered, crisper, in fact, than his memory had been, and he recognized the slightest details perfectly now that they lay before him. As well-done as Love had been, he’d made a poor copy. Geralt was shorter than Love, if only an inch. There was the small white scar hidden just inside Geralt’s collar from the bar brawl two summers ago in Ban Glean when the sharp edge of a torn tin plate had scraped him. There was the one button on the low end of his shirt sewn back on with dark- blue thread. Each minute thing seen daily and forgotten, now so lovingly remembered as if he shed the haze of forgetting with every tear that now rolled down his cheek. His arm shook, reaching outward, imploring.

Five short strides and that tender, tatty glove had taken his hand. Another reached behind him and pulled him firmly against the bars toward an armored chest.

Jaskier’s face became slick with the silphium oil, and the embrace was made uncomfortable and awkward by the bars between them, but he hugged back even harder, trying to melt himself through the cage into those arms. His chest heaved and shuddered, his nose so unromantically full of pressure, dripping and gross. He turned his head and wiped his nose against the shoulder of his shirt, not caring how disgusting it was for the first time since he’d been a tiny toddling scamp of six. He could taste it dripping down his throat, salty and slimy and horrible, but he didn’t care.

“How did—how did you find me?” he choked out. One hand trapped in the another between him, one wrapped beneath that rough leather shell, clawing at dry linen, he clung. He bunched the material in his hand, feeling it just to lend reality to this apparition. Solid. So many things he wanted to say first. He’d rehearsed so many reunions, but when it came to it, in this state, he was too overwhelmed and had to lay them all aside. They’d have a proper hello in a minute or two—no, on the ground, after it was over. He tried so hard to be reasonable. Five more seconds of comfort. He counted them as he tried to remember the threats that were waiting, ready to pop out of the darkness in the corners of the room.

Five. There was no telling where Love was.

Four. They had to break the cage open. He’d never encountered Dimeritium and he knew not if Geralt would be strong enough to break it, even with his help. If it truly was resistant to magic, Geralt’s spells would be useless against it as well.

Three. Sweet Melitele, he missed this warmth. _Three and a half, that didn’t count_. They had to find Ciri and Jaskier had no idea where in the temple he was, nor how to get to her room. And there was the trouble of the temple rearranging itself as it had on the first night, if Love was so crafty. Was this place _in_ the temple at all? He could be anywhere, he realized.

Two. If Geralt had come on the little breeze, would it be strong enough to carry them all three away? Taking turns would slow them down significantly. What was Geralt’s plan? How much had the little breeze been able to tell him about it all? There’d be scant time to talk about it, even on the run. Kaer Morhen still sat comfortably at the forefront of his mind as a fair stronghold for hiding. He didn’t care if they had to hide in the musty, frozen cellar if that was what it took, with all its earthy, wet smells. Jaskier lifted his head from its hiding place. Yellow eyes looked back at him in the darkness. He smiled and leaned upward, and for a moment all fear—of _anything_ —was gone. He imagined he could smell the cellar now. It’d probably smell just like him and the other witchers: that same musk of sweat and onion and earth. He tried to breath it in with his stuffy, snorty nose, but he smelled no onions. Only hyacinth.

One. Jaskier froze. The face looking down at him took on a new expression, one less tender.

“I put you here,” Love answered. The voice was the same stolen voice, but Jaskier knew him.

Jaskier shoved Love away and staggered back until his shoulder blades clashed against the far side of the cage once more, causing the hollow bars to ring. He inhaled sharply, clasped his hands to his chest. They began to sweat, and his heart to beat in the worst way.

Love sighed. “It would’ve been fun, even if only for a little longer, to go on pretending. I’ve never seen such raw adoration. I felt sure you were nearly about to kiss me, but then you tensed up. You’d found me out.”

“You …. you _lied_ to me.”

“No, no, not a lie. Not quite a lie. It was a _trick._ I never said anything untrue, nor did I proclaim myself to be someone else. I’m not a creature skilled that way, as you know.”

“You’re a rat!” Jaskier cried in broken voice. He was still too full of lingering emotion, now turned foul. All composure was lost and he was left bare, and without even a scathing insult. “You made me believe you were him.”

“Geralt.” Love ran a hand over the shadow of stubble on his chin. He was looking at Jaskier, but he had the effect of observing himself in a mirror. He hummed and it was painfully familiar. The sound instinctually brought warmth to Jaskier’s heart, then the next logical instant, repulsion and terror.

“So … this is not some arbitrary face you’ve dreamt up,” Love said. “I was right in my initial suspicion: there never was a portrait.”

Jaskier stared back, his eyes still leaking in an effort to empty at least one or two drops from the roiling sea of confusion and betrayal that threatened to drown his heart. It was an unspoken line crossed. It was a true deception.

Love knelt down before the bars, a cocksure, lecherous smile pasted on his lips. “Your Ciri is as skillful a liar as you are,” he said. He tapped the wrinkles in the corner of one squinting eye with his forefinger, taunting. And _still_ he spoke as Geralt. “Is it a true likeness? I caught a glimpse of him while I ripped the song from this throat, but not a very good one. His voice, on the other hand, I’ve become quite acquainted with on my journey back. I know him by sound.”

“Stop that,” Jaskier whispered. His voice was hollow. This was a horror he’d never invented, even in the worst, most secret of his nightmares. Geralt would never, _never_ hurt him. Not like this. A smack to the arm for being rude, a fist to the belly upon the meeting of a pushy stranger, certainly. He’d use his words to send him away in a moment of pain, but he’d never do anything so calculated and cruel. Yet, here was Geralt’s image, speaking in Geralt’s voice, lording over him as a captive thing he found entertaining. His eyes and ears tried to tell him this was Geralt, but he knew rationally it was untrue. He was fighting himself. All because he missed that voice, he was struggling against believing it. But struggle he did, and he closed his eyes and turned away that he might not see the armor, the face. In the perfect darkness, he conjured up the image of the poorer copy, dressed like a dandy in his fine clothes.

“Stop what?” Love asked, inclining his head.

“Use your own voice.”

“As you wish,” he replied, speaking properly at last.

Jaskier felt little in the way of relief.

“It really was an unexpected surprise for me. I thought you would have some lovers left below, there could be no doubt about that, but _he_ was _quite_ a different story.” Love stood once more and leaned with his back against the cage. A number of flowers were crushed in the process, their petals falling carelessly to the floor. Love brushed some from his shoulder, blew the rest off and watched them sail in the air, riding a draft.

“If I had waited for the Wind to return, I might never have known, but now I do know that I made a mistake leaving him in the woods.” Love sighed, crossing his arms. He muttered with evident distain. “Seems he made it out alive after all, though he was immeasurably more changed than you ever were. Death did not die.”

“Death?”

Love scoffed and corrected himself. “Well, Winter, as he prefers, but I don’t suppose I’m under any obligation to actually _use_ the name.” He stopped to debate himself briefly. “Then again, it would be the mannerly thing to do,” he added. Then, with irritation, “What a lot of trouble he is, just existing. He’s tiring just to _talk_ about. He ought to have stayed dead and done the decent thing for everyone.”

Jaskier opened his eyes. He looked back at Love, uncurling slightly. “What are you saying?” It was impossible follow his grumbling one word to the next, so often he seemed to change from one topic to another. Geralt, Wind, then Death. There was no keeping up with him.

Love waved a hand. “Oh yes,” he said. “Your dearly beloved and devoted who I found singing a love song for you, wandering listlessly up on the lonely mountain top, was none other than the same small boy I left in the woods. Your Geralt.”

Jaskier shook his head, agitated. “What … what does that _mean?_ You can’t possibly know that; you said it yourself you didn’t know me when I changed, and you couldn’t find me anywhere in the world until I called for you.”

Would Geralt have called for Love? Jaskier found it hard to believe he’d _sing,_ let alone a _love song_ , and let- _let_ alone sing a love song for _himself_. “You’re mistaken,” he dismissed, “and you’re cracked, marbles all gone and rolled out of your great big elephant ears.”

But Love went on to elaborate quite calmly, as if it were the most obvious, most rational thing, to the point of exasperation. “I didn’t recognize him. It was the Wind that felt his pull: the remains of Boreas, the north,” Love explained. “I would have thought the Winds were so well combined, with no memory. They aren’t worshipped these days under such names, too long forgotten. Now they are one force: a single phenomenon, occasionally split apart to do its work. But I felt the memory stir in it, and the air became colder the moment we drew near, as if it were called into waking.”

Love began to pace loftily around the cage, twirling the air with his finger. “The Wind was already returning your yellow when you made the request for songs. I’d cut its work short to retrieve you when I felt your presence leave the border of my realm, and it had to journey out again without rest. So burdened as it was with its task, I went alone to procure the songs. How shall I describe it? The work of returning yellow is not like an all-absorbing sweep as the gathering had been. The return required more finesse. The Wind carried your tokens on its back like that jolly elf, Santa Claus, from those recent stories. Father Christmas? Oh, what _was_ that name? The point stands, whoever he is—I’ve been far too occupied to bother with newcomer greetings. I digress,” he said, taking a breath.

“The Wind had to take slow care to return each yellow exactly in the right place it was meant to be, which is a laborious process, taking much time. Time itself plays a role: one cannot return a yellow morning light in the evening, nor a noontime sun in the middle of the night. I started from the top, taking songs from the flying birds, and worked my way down. When I set out, the Wind was returning that last gift on its homeward journey: the evening’s last golden hour. I was not gone for very long when I found him there, the witcher. The Wind and I crossed paths then, so conveniently at the end of his _silly little song.”_ He punctuated every syllable of those last three words in a most degrading manner, expression one of pure contempt. It carried throughout his speech in various shades of subtlety.

“I think Luck must favor me,” he continued, “for it was then I felt Boreas stir, and that I heard the man beg your forgiveness in song.” He chuckled and turned to face Jaskier, still leaning carelessly on the bars, as if it were all of no consequence. “I admit, I might’ve been a bit needlessly rough when extracting _his_ songs, but I’m a jealous man and I don’t like hearing your name so longingly sung from another man’s lips. It was very near a _prayer_. Your mortal name has not become the subject of worship as your godly title has, yet he spoke it as such. It was _vulgar.”_

It was such a lot to take in all at once. Jaskier had sat stiff, listening as Love went on, unable to reply. He had too many questions, a feeling which had been overwhelming him of late. Dumbfounded, he latched onto the first conscious question he could form. It was the least important of all, and yet, it was a question so dear.

“He really sang a song?” Jaskier asked.

“Hmm? Is that something surprising? Yes, he sang a song; even wrote it, I’d wager, or modified one to suit you. It was one of the first things I collected. It may be very deep toward the bottom, but perhaps if I gave it a little shake …”

So saying, Love retrieved the pretty shell from his pocket and gave it a rattle, producing an odd cacophony of noises that had no business emerging from a single, seemingly ordinary object. He held it to his ear, listening, then he blew in it, rubbed it against his shoulder for show, and nodded satisfactorily before passing it to Jaskier. “There it is. Have a listen and see for yourself.”

Jaskier mechanically crawled to his feet and raised his hand to accept the shell. He held it against his own ear, cradled firmly in his clammy palm, so afraid to drop it in his shaking. Geralt’s voice sang melancholy from the opening, a gentle song so intimate, he could almost feel the warm breath on his skin. His knees buckled and he sat down in the center of the cage before he could fall, still listening intently to the song as Love cut in to continue his rant, obviously upset at having been even momentarily forgotten.

“So that was the famous White Wolf you made mention of.” Love sneered and shook his head. “A witcher. It’s comical: even if he’s shed the mantle of Death, he continues to honour his old duties, leaving death in his wake wherever he goes. Their fate is nothing other than a life-long killing spree. Becoming Winter was never such a far leap to begin with. Having only him below, it seems the world is faring worse than it might’ve without him. Even in the absence of Spring, the snow ought to melt. Yet, there it stays. It is Winter’s world. I can only _imagine_ how much worse it would be if he’d come into power, but luckily for the people, no god has brought him to any immortal realm. Perhaps his mutations have brought some trace of his powers to the surface. It may require study.”

Jaskier glowered and took the shell from his ear. He’d wanted to do the honourable thing and listen to the song all the way through. Geralt had written it for him. And now the first listen was tainted by Love’s squawking. Even so, he had to listen and pay attention when Love spoke, especially during such confusing times where each word shed new insight. This latest was unbelievable to say the least. He held the shell to his heart, reflecting as the words made him reel in place.

Geralt … was Winter. The implications of that alone were fantastic and strange. Geralt had written him a song—had begged to be forgiven. Geralt had never _begged_ for anything a day in his life. Yet, whatever creature Love was, god or no, he could not lie. Unless, as he’d considered, not lying was a lie. There were so many things left up in the air if that were the case. Jaskier’s mind was buzzing with too many questions. There were too many variables conflicting with one another, and his own biases were crying at him, wanting him to believe in things that, if true, were also dangerous. If Geralt was really there on the mountain, there was one thing above all else that he needed to know.

“What did you do to him after you took it?” Jaskier asked, speaking slowly, enunciating through his fear.

Love looked down at the bag carried at his side. He shifted it in front of him and flipped the top, revealing the sweet golden dandelions that lay hidden within. He plucked the head of one and held it out to Jaskier in the palm of his hand. When he did, Jaskier caught a glimpse of his wrist. The scratches were still there, but the thick red cuff was gone. Whatever had been left unfulfilled from their bargain was now rectified, and the shackles were evidently no more.

“It seems there was one bit of yellow left after all, and in _flowers_ at that, but I believe these already belonged to you, even if someone else had them. So well preserved as they are, they couldn’t have been conceived on earth, and they were blooming, which was a tell-tale sign that they did not belong. Regardless, they are here now, and since they originated here, I am _returning_ them as instructed, under no obligation to take them below.”

“What will you do with them?” Jaskier stared at the muddy bottom of his bag and the thick layer of dirt inside it: a plot of real earth, loosened from the ground like a patch of garden.

Love hefted the bag forward. It landed with a solid thud at Jaskier’s feet, the poor flowers bruised against the slick bars and dirt tumbling out.

Jaskier scrambled to his feet to right them again before they were crushed. He blew the dirt from their petals and replanted those which had come loose with tender care.

“Weeds,” Love said scornfully. “My flowers were nicer.”

“They’re more than weeds!” Jaskier snapped. “Why bother bringing them root and all if you hate them so? You could’ve just plucked them.”

“I don’t hate them, and I did promise to return the flowers as they were found. But I didn’t pack them—I’d never do something so stupid, putting dirt in a perfectly good bag. I’d have put them in a nice pot like any civilized person. No, it was _he_ who carried them that way. How perfectly impractical.”

Jaskier righted the bag and paused. He looked up. “Geralt found these?”

“They were with him when we met,” he replied. Love then resumed his circling of the cage. As he moved, his shadow passed over Jaskier and left, allowing more light from the hall to enter.

Then Jaskier saw it. Under the dirt and the dust and the shadows of the dark room, he recognized his own bag. Geralt had found his campsite. He’d been _looking_. It was impossible to think he’d have wandered to the coast so directionless, being so far west, and he’d been so sure Geralt would make his way east, following the witch. But here was his bag, and his dandelions so carefully tucked in and preserved. He thought he knew them, too, not as random flowers, but as a mother knew a child separated, now grown up and reunited.

_Maybe you can find the wolf and tell him where I am._

Jaskier bent lower, eying the little flowerhead Love had mangled. He picked it up and brought it to his face. “Did you?” he whispered.

“Did I what?”

Jaskier looked at Love, then quickly thought of what he might be asking. He could not appear to be conspiring. Helpfully, he remembered his other question had gone unanswered. “Did you do something to him?” he asked.

“Start deciding what song you’ll sing for me,” Love said, ignoring him. He looked at the shell pointedly. “I’m sure you’ll find _something_ in there, and you’ll have plenty of time to sort through it all. It’s been a long day and I’ve had twice as much to do as usual. I’ll be retiring early for some well-earned rest. In the meantime, enjoy your gifts. I will see you in the morning.”

“Did you _do something?”_ Jaskier insisted.

“Ah, that reminds me; I’m owed a goodnight kiss.”

“Answer the goddamned question.”

“Oh, did you damn it? I didn’t.” Love chuckled and turned around, headed toward the door. “I suppose there need be no kiss tonight. I don’t think I’d want to kiss lips that say such foul words until after they’ve been made sweet again with song. I will kiss you tomorrow, perhaps. Until then, I will think on it.”

“You’ll be thinking a long time,” Jaskier replied.

“I suppose I shall,” Love conceded, standing in the doorway. “But I will be doing it in a well-lit room.” So saying, he shut the door behind him, leaving Jaskier once more in darkness.

Jaskier waited for his eyes to adjust, but even then it was difficult to see the yellow flowers with the scant light from under the door. He lay on the ground, whispering to them when it was safe.

“Did you tell him?” he asked.

But there was no magic in his cage, and the dandelions made no reply, not even a bob of acknowledgement. Nonetheless, Jaskier closed his eyes and his heart felt lighter. These were dandelions of his making, and unknowingly, he’d made them for a purpose. They’d found Geralt, and he’d deemed them important enough to carry with him all the way up the mountain, and Jaskier thought he knew which.

“He’s in Caingorn,” he said. “He’s there and he’s searching. You were guiding him, I’m sure of it. I didn’t dare hope … but he’s _coming_.”

Jaskier knew Geralt could not be dead. Not tonight. When he slept, he remembered no dreams, for once unplagued by terrors. There were no nightmares with hope fighting back the shadows.

* * *

Ciri was in a rage. She sat in her perfect little room, now remade without so much as a scratch or flower out of place on the once scorched wallpaper. Tucked with her feet up on the bed, she tried again and again to make sparks between her fingers to no avail. Her door was locked and the windows would not open to let her through; starting another fire seemed to be the only way out. It was her intention to burn the door down or melt the glass. She refused to be confined alone. Jaskier was somewhere in the temple, and she had to find him.

“Snap once more and you’re going to snap a bone next,” Love warned. He’d emerged from the thin air, startling her. “Look at your poor fingers: they’ve gone red. Aren’t they sore?”

Ciri whirled around and glared at him with all the ferocity of Queen Calanthe staring down an enemy on the field. “Not as sore as you’ll be if you don’t let me out.” She dashed to the fireplace and brandished the poker, taking position as Jaskier had taught her. The poker was quite heavier than she expected and she took it in both hands.

Love nudged the threatening tip away from his face without much interest. “You really do have his fighting spirit—too much of it, in fact. There’s no need to get violent.”

“Not if you listen to me, there isn’t. Open the door and let me out.”

Love looked at her. Then, quite pointedly, he let the door creak open and waved her through.

Ciri waited a moment, then burst through the doorway. “Jaskier!” she called. She headed left down the corridor towards the grand ballroom and dining hall, intending to follow it all the way to Jaskier’s room in the hope of finding him.

“He’s not there,” Love said to her retreating back.

“I’ll see for myself, thanks!” she replied. She didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him, and she couldn’t even _lift_ him.

Love trailed after her with a huff. He did not like to be ignored. “Will you settle down long enough to be curious about why I’ve come?” he asked.

“I don’t care.” And she didn’t. She was too wrapped up in her own head to care about much of anything at the moment. The world was a tunnel around her, and the only goal in sight was finding Jaskier. The last she’d seen of him, he’d fallen from the stalk of vines, then she’d woken to find herself in her room. Love had come to visit early in the morning to bring her breakfast, but she’d been too frightened to eat a morsel of it, her stomach in knots, wondering about Jaskier. Love assured her that he’d been caught by the Wind and was doing just fine, resting in the temple, same as her, but no matter how she pushed, he would not answer her with more specifics, nor would he allow her to see him. So she had thrown herself back under the covers until he’d gone away, refusing to entertain him with her company.

Ciri shoved her shoulder hard against the door of Jaskier’s room and rammed through it. The room was just as they’d left it the night of their escape, except for the bed, which had politely made itself neat again as it did every morning. Though it was obvious there was nothing beneath, she threw back the covers anyway, then bent to check under the bed and in the wardrobe, and craned to look out the windows. There was not a trace of Jaskier anywhere. Her heart beat quickly, wondering where Love might have taken him if he was not in his room. She spotted his notebook where she’d left it among the stack of myths and snatched it up, clutching it to her chest. She didn’t want to be alone again.

Hearing Love’s footsteps behind her, she turned and raised her poker once more. “Where is he?” she asked. “Answer me this time, or I _swear_ , I will—”

“Don’t finish that,” Love interrupted. “I’d get in the habit of watching what I say, particularly when making any kind of vow. Leaving one unfulfilled can have the power to kill you quite painfully.”

“Trust me, I intend to follow through.”

“Nevertheless.”

Ciri cried out in protest as Love pried the poker from her grip with little effort. It slipped through her hands like smoke, and in an instant it was gone.

“Will you listen to me now?” Love asked, growing steadily impatient.

“Will you tell me where Jaskier is?” she sassed.

“No.”

“Then no.” Ciri clutched the notebook so hard her knuckles went white. This was unreasonable! Without Jaskier, she was untethered to this place and its plans, and she felt as if she might fall over the edge of the realm just by standing still. “If I can’t even see him, then what’s the point in my being here! You sent for me to be his companion, didn’t you? You wanted me to soften his heart, so you said. I can’t do my job if I’m kept separate from him, so what am I _meant_ to be doing? What role and I playing in your game?”

Love smiled and quite honestly replied, “You’re blackmail.”

By the expression on her face, it was clear that Ciri had not expected such a straightforward answer.

Love sat in his usual chair an elaborated further. “I see now,” he said, “that you will continue to be cross with me regardless of what I do, so we might as well be perfectly clear with one another. My efforts to charm your father have not worked as I’d hoped, and if your stubbornness is on par with his, I’m sure you already know what results future efforts might yield. So I’m changing the game. The game changes, the roles change, so you will no longer be a useful guest, but a more overt tool for my conquest.”

“What sort of blackmail do you intend for me to be? Will you threaten to torture me? To neglect me?” Ciri was still too angry to be scared and it served her well. If she had time to stop and think, she _would_ be scared, and it was not the time to be thinking of such things. Despair was catching and she’d already lost too much before coming to this place. She was coming to a breaking point very soon.

“Not right away,” Love replied. “Perhaps in a year or so. I should like not to harm you at all, and the threat would be enough for him. Your visits will be leverage. I first intend to bargain Jaskier with the sight of you, let him grow anxious when you’re kept away too long—that sort of thing, you know.”

Ciri could not fathom a year in the realm. It was too long—too long alone. “Jaskier will never have anything to do with you, not for all your tricks and bargains,” she said, as if that would be the end of it all like a magic spell.

“I have more tricks than you know, little girl. Now, will you join me for our dinner, or will you continue to sit in your room and sulk? I came to fetch you for the purpose, perhaps talk over a meal like civilized people. I mean to continue to treat you civilly, after all.”

“I’ll sulk, thank you. And it _isn’t_ sulking; it’s brooding, and there’s a difference. Jaskier would know it. I doubt if you have the capacity.”

Love leaned forward and rubbed his temples, looking more tired than he had any right to be. “Tell me, is it every day or only every other that you run that tongue of yours over a whetstone? Your tone is disrespectfully sharp.”

“It never dulls, nor does my wit, and I don’t respect those who belittle me,” she said, sounding very much like Jaskier. She snatched up another book, just to feel as if she were swiping something from Love; as if she were stealing Jaskier back from him. “Go have your dinner alone, old man. I’ll be taking my leave.”

The door closed in front of Ciri’s nose as she walked towards it and she yelped. It opened again for her and stood wide, but she did not go through it. She glanced over her shoulder and caught Love’s self-satisfied expression. It made her wish she still had the poker to throw at him. She considered throwing the extra book, but she did not quite dare.

“Come,” Love said. He brushed past her into the hall with an air of absolute authority. “We’ll have dinner sorted, then I’ll guide you back to your room where you may sulk for the remainder of the evening.”

Ciri looked down the long corridor and realized the decision had been made long before she could consider it for herself. Having reached the room, she had no desire to return to her own. At least here there was the memory of Jaskier. She might curl up in his bed and hug his pillow, breathing the scent of him and pretending he was there to protect her. In her room, there was nothing of him: only one memory of a song. She picked up an armload of books, hurriedly grabbing them from the piles around his sitting chair. If she was going to be confined in that place, she’d take _something_ of Jaskier with her. At least she might continue the research where he’d left off. With a goal in mind, she would not feel so lost.

Love turned back to see what was taking her so long and sighed. “You can’t possibly carry all of those and I won’t indulge you with two trips.”

“I’ll take what I can manage then,” she said.

“You _will_ make this as difficult as possible, won’t you?” He snapped his fingers and the cart rolled into the room as if turning a corner, though there had been no corner to be seen when Ciri had run down the corridor. It stopped at her foot and nudged her politely with its push handle.

“Load it up, then get walking,” Love said. “If there’s anything else you think of later, the house will provide it for you. Really, I could just have them _sent_ to your room. For a species so overly-concerned with time, you do seem to revel in wasting as much of it as possible.”

Ciri set the stacks of books on the bottom level of the cart, thankful to see her fussy friend. With the cart between her and Love, she felt much more comfortable and less inclined to be short with him.

Dinner, it turned out, was an unusual affair. There was a buffet laid out on the table with many dishes in a long row. Love gestured towards a large tray set at the end. Upon it sat a plate, a deep saucer, and a plentiful assortment of utensils as one might find at a banquet.

“I know children tend to be picky, so I’d decided to have you choose for yourself what you like. You didn’t eat much of last night’s dinner, I noticed, nor much of breakfast. I had this feast already in the workings before your little _escapade_ , and I had almost considered confining you to your room without supper tonight, but it would be a waste. I doubt if any goodwill I show will convince you to act amicably towards me, but I may still try.”

She looked at the table, then at Love, wanting to turn heel and march back to the room without a word, fighting the hunger that had been slowly creeping upon her all day. In the end, her stomach compelled her to take up the tray. Love talked about each dish as she loaded her plate with a bit of each to sample, but she did not pay him the slightest attention. She only listened a minute or two when she came upon a selection of tureens bearing each a different soup. Having only one saucer, choosing was difficult. She nearly dumped the tray on the table to storm off on principle when Love smiled and suggested she try first a spoon’s worth of the different soups, pleased to see her take an interest, but the cart must have noticed her fisting her dress and it nudged her gently. In the end, she filled her dish with a thick, white soup loaded with potatoes and some green garnish. When they returned home, she hoped Jaskier would use his powers to introduce potatoes to the garden in Kaer Morhen.

Love helped set her tray on the glass top of the cart and saw them back to her room. She laid her dinner out on the table before the fireplace, already lit cheerfully to welcome her back, and she stacked the books around her own sitting chair just as she’d found them in the other room. The cart waited courteously to be dismissed and she patted its handle in thanks. It squeaked out of the room again and lingered as Love entered to bid her good night. She felt as if it were looking out for her, and she was grateful to see it stayed.

Ciri looked nervously at the door. “If you’re going to lock me in again, can you at least make it so that I can open the window? Or at least a part of it, small enough you don’t have to worry about me getting out.”

“The Wind is out in the fields at night and the air is cold,” Love said.

“Is it?” She turned her head to look curiously out through the glass. Indeed, there was the gentle rustle of the trees swaying in the moonlight. “Even so, I’d like to be able to open the window if I may. I like the sounds of night, and it’s so quiet here.”

“There are no birds or crickets, nothing to make those noises. They would ruin the landscape and the temple, so you will not find them in my realm.”

“But there’s Wind,” she argued. “Wind makes a sweet noise. I will remember to close the window when I sleep, but please. If you will take Jaskier from me, at least let me have my window and a bit of Wind. I don’t want to be alone.”

Love smiled tenderly at her. “You may.” He lifted a hand and a small panel opened in the window. There was a latch on it now, and it swung on its hinges. The pane was one of the decorative panels near the corner of the bench, etched with colorful flowers. “Will you think better of me?” he asked wistfully.

“Time will tell,” she replied. Her voice was soft and carried an ambiguity.

“Good night then. Perhaps time will be an ally to me as well.”

There was a stirring of the air and once more he vanished, leaving nothing in his wake but the quiet click of the lock setting in the door. A moment passed with naught but the sound of the fire popping and hissing on the logs and the Wind outside, playing among the leaves and grasses. Then, Ciri began to smile. She passed the table, disregarding her meal, and walked over to the bench. She climbed up onto it, legs tucked beneath her, and looked out the window.

“He said I might have a bit of _Wind,”_ she whispered conspiratorially.

In answer, the air outside stilled, listening.

Ciri whistled.

A hot, dry breeze brushed her face and entered the room. It whipped at the curtains and made the ashes on the hearth swirl messily onto the carpet, forced the flames to dance upward into the chimney. It smelled of sunshine and the salty waves out at sea. There was a crack of trade ship sails in it and the memory of the hum of cicadas and whooping whippoorwills. It circled the room thrice for enthusiasm before settling to play in her hair, come home at last. She snapped the tiny window shut to keep the other Wind out.

“How many are you?” she asked. “Are you truly in four? Can we call on you?”

It whirled twice around her quickly.

“What does that mean? Are the Winds split in two?”

It went around four times.

Ciri put her hands up, her hair now _very_ tangled. “Settle down, be still! You’re too strong and someone might hear you,” she hissed. “Speak _gently_ , please.”

The Wind blew soft against her, apologetic.

“Good. So four. There are four Winds. The first time, you blew twice; does that mean two are free? Blow upwards for yes, downwards for no.”

The Wind gave an enthusiastic leap upward, blowing her top skirt in her face.

Ciri smoothed her layers down, too excited to scold the Wind for speaking loudly again. They were communicating! “There are two Winds free! They must be those of spring and summer, am I right? Jaskier called for the spring Wind during our escape, and I’ve called for you now. That leaves—yes, yes, you can stop blowing in my face, I understand—that leaves only the autumn and winter Winds. Geralt doesn’t know about the Winds so he won’t know to call on his, and I don’t know if he has the power to if he tries.” She was already convinced of his godly role. She needed no confirmation from Love. “We’ll have to capture them somehow. Without the Wind, Love can’t stop us from leaving again.” She reached out her hands imploringly and her breeze blew happily through her fingers. “Please, can you be caught?” she asked.

An upward draft.

“So it’s been done! Tell me how!”

The Wind stilled. It then began to blow around the room, in and out of the curtains and covers in an incomprehensible pantomime. Its explanations were beyond her.

Ciri sighed and signaled it to rest. “We will have to think of something else. But still, that’s progress! We know it can be done.” She giggled as the Wind ticked her face affectionately, like a dog leaping up to lick its master’s chin. “He _did_ tell me to get in the habit of watching what I say, but he was careless with _listening_. Full of tricks—well I’m trickier!”

The Wind gave a joyful leap!

“Come have dinner with me. You can blow on my soup, Not—um, I know it was Not-Something. Oh, what was your name?”

Ciri crossed back to her table and spotted the notebook. She opened it and flipped through the pages, remembering the notes she’d taken. Had it only been yesterday? Or was it the day before? So much had happened in so little time, it was difficult to remember. Regardless, the notes were there which contained the names of the four Winds. She trailed a finger down the page until she found it.

“Notus,” she confirmed. “Are you still called that or do you go by another name?”

The Wind gave a non-committal updraft, as if to say it hardly mattered.

“Well, I shall call you Notus until I think of something better. If I’m your new master, that must mean you’re a new Wind, or at least I think it would make sense. I’ll give you a new name for the new age. Jaskier will help me.”

The Wind rushed away and she saw the flutter of the carpet fringe that sat before the arch. From the adjacent anteroom came a little _twang._ Ciri followed the sound. In the middle of the room, propped on its stand among the rest of the instruments, was the lute. The Wind blew against its strings again and made them sound— _twang, twang!_

“Yes, that’s him,” she said. “The one who plays that is Jaskier.”

The Wind gave it another _twang_ before settling again.

Ciri chuckled. “I like him too.”

When they returned to dinner, the Wind busied itself stirring her soup, listening while she spoke to the air between bites, which, in this case, was partly true.

“Jaskier had been keeping notes all this time about the gods and magic and rules in this book. I helped him with it the other day, writing about you and the other Winds. If we only had the winter Wind, we might fight off the other, but it would be impossible to fight against both autumn and winter with spring and summer. _You’re_ strong enough for a fight, but the spring wind is the gentlest; we’d be at a disadvantage. Against their combined forces, we couldn’t possibly win. We’ll have to try to capture the other Winds instead. But how does one capture something that isn’t solid? I couldn’t even keep you in this room if I wanted: you would blow up the chimney or through the tiniest crack in the window, or slip under the door and be gone.”

Ciri sat upright. “You can slip under doors,” she repeated.

The Wind stopped stirring her soup, listening attentively.

“Can you be very, _very_ quiet?” she asked. The summer Wind was wilder than the others, vivacious and free. She worried it might always be loud and unable to contain that boldness.

The Wind blew through her hair so gently, she hardly knew it was there but for its warmth.

Ciri’s eyes lit up. She dropped her fork and stood. “You can help me find Jaskier!” she said, doing her best to also keep quiet. It was difficult, filled with joy as she was. With the help of the Wind, she wouldn’t have to wander aimlessly for hours in the temple searching. As the time wore on so would her chances of being caught, and there was no guarantee the door would be unlocked if she found the one that hid him. She would be forced otherwise to call for Jaskier and Love would hear her and come at once to put her away. That is, if she could get out of her own room first.

“Hmm.” Ciri looked dubiously at the door. Love hadn’t used a key to lock it; the Wind wouldn’t be able to fetch it for her. The windows wouldn’t break either. Jaskier had tried that once before, she recalled, and there was no way for her to squeeze through the panel.

With a sigh, she sat again before the fireplace. Her soup now cool, she picked up the saucer and drank it from the edge, not bothering with her spoon. The soup was delicious, as she knew it would be, but she paid it little mind. She was too busy staring at the flames, thinking. She watched the sparks burst from the wood and fly up the flue.

“Oh.”

Ciri put down her saucer and bent to kneel on the carpet, angling her head so she could see into the opening of the fireplace, up into the chimney. It looked about right.

“Notus? Do you think you’re strong enough to carry me on your back?” she asked.

The Wind blew upwards confidently and she was pulled up to her feet from the floor.

“Good. We’ll go up the chimney, just like that story about the elf from the north!” She went to fetch the pitcher of water by the basin. She threw it on the fire, dousing the flames, then the Wind blew up into the chimney to cool it. It whirled around a long time before returning to her, covered in soot. She removed the grate and the blackened wood before positioning herself in the opening, arms up.

“I’m read—” and she was cut off as the Wind picked her up and carried her high into the air! It was a miracle that she did not cry out, her stomach thankfully silencing her with a sudden lurch. She pointed to the next closest chimney and they went down again, confirming that there was nothing lit inside it. Ciri stifled a cough as she landed on a loose pile of fresh wood, covered head to toe in soot. She braced herself with her hands on either side so that she would not slip as the logs gave out beneath her. With a bit of careful contortion, she squirmed out of the fireplace without much noise.

Looking around, she discovered they were in the ballroom. It was dark now, the torches and chandelier now barren of flame. The great shadow in the middle of the room—dinner table, the realized—stood barren. It was eerie, and the room had a feeling of vast emptiness more obvious now than in daylight. She hadn’t been _so_ long in her room. By rights, she thought Love ought to be in the ballroom still, having his dinner at the table. Did he need to eat, or was it for show, she wondered?

Ciri whispered, “Look for him as silently as you can, then come fetch me. If you find … if you find the _other_ one, don’t let him catch you.” She, too, was afraid to use his name in the realm lest she call his attention—wisely so. “When you come to fetch me, please peek ahead at the corners and halls. You can hide quickly; you’re invisible. I need time to hide, understand?”

The Wind blew silently, puffing her hair upward in confirmation.

“I’ll be here, under the table. Come find me when you’ve finished looking.”

The Wind gave another puff and blew past her. She watched it go, seeing nothing, not even a ruffle of curtains, and it was gone.

Ciri crawled under the table, hiding behind the cloth. She was nothing, not even a shadow to be spotted in the moonlight, sheltered in her secret place. As her heart beat faster, responding to the grand intrigue, she tried to keep her breathing steady and silent. All at once she realized how impulsive it all was. She might’ve easily written Jaskier a note and sent the Wind to deliver it, but she had jumped in with both feet, no plan. It would be a fine system for another night, but tonight she had to see him with her own eyes and know that he was alright.

The Wind, _her_ Wind, was well suited to her own brashness. She made herself a promise to try to think things through more in future. When she’d seen Jaskier, she’d be calm again. They could make a new plan: catch the remaining Wind and escape, just as they’d wanted. With the Wind out of the way, there would be nothing else to stop them. Love may have suppressed her power, but if her Wind was strong enough to carry her up the chimney, it was reasonable to assume it could carry them down to the earth, at least one at a time. They would handle the rest from there. It was a good start for a plan, and in the morning she would continue her studies to see how the Wind was caught before.

As she plotted, the far end of the tablecloth lifted. She covered her mouth the suppress a gasp, eyes wide as she expected a face to bend and look at her, but the cloth lowered again and the Wind was wrapping around her hair, pulling her forward. She sighed with relief.

“Did you find him?” she whispered, voice tight.

All around her, the tablecloth billowed upward.

“Let’s go!”

She took off her boots and left them beneath the table, creeping out in her stocking feet, hurrying as quickly and quietly as possible. The Wind pulled her down into an open corridor, past the square gardens she’d yet to explore. They were heading toward the altar room, that much she could see for herself, but she’d never been beyond it. The Wind went ahead at each hall, allowing her to hide at the other end, then it would return and pull at her skirt, beckoning her forward when the far end was confirmed clear.

The temple was strange further in. The walls were painted as they had been in other places, but the darkness and the shadows of the columns gave them a foreboding quality. As they went along, she had an inkling that the scenes portrayed told a history, moving in sequence, but she did not have time to take it all in. However, she caught glimpses of a recurring figure in red cloth, a bow at his side and a quiver of arrows in each scene, his arrows always reflecting whatever light came through. They were gilded, adorned with gold and silver leaf. Though the face was always changing, sometimes painted rather like a man, rather like a woman, the figure was dressed identically in each piece. It was the only one with gilding.

Ciri grew more and more anxious as the Wind lead her on. The paintings on the walls had begun happily with feasting and dancing, depicting celebrations, but here she saw violent pictures. A bare woman raised her arms and cried, face contorted in fear as a swan sat between her legs, wings spread wide. Another man, beautiful, leaned over a river and stared at his reflection as a maiden wept. The man looked withered as she hesitated, looking closer, then the Wind was tugging her on. She passed many more scenes before the figure in red appeared again, this time with head downcast in hand, a lovely woman reaching out beseechingly. The rest of the paintings that followed were dark in color and much too difficult to decipher in the low light.

At last, the Wind slowed before a door. She heard the faintest noise as it slipped under the crack, then the door opened of its own volition. Ciri checked the hall, then ducked inside, sure to close the door behind her.

The room was pitch black. The Wind tugged at her skirt again and whirled around the room. She could hear it now, listening, and the room sounded quite large and empty. Then there was another stirring ahead of her, and the unmistakable involuntary grunt of a man in his forties being disturbed from his slumber.

“Jaskier?” Ciri whispered.

Another grunt, distinctly voluntary. “Isn’t _one_ imitation enough for the night?” he said bitterly. “You couldn’t wait until morning at least? I’m sure I wasn’t asleep _that_ long.”

“Jaskier, it’s me,” she insisted. She put her arms out in front of her to prevent hitting something. It really was too dark to see where she was going.

“Prove it. Name one secret we share.” His tone was sarcastic and she heard him flop down on the ground again.

“I wrote my ‘and’ symbols backwards for two summers and nobody bothered to correct me.” It wasn’t exactly a secret, but there were not many people who were privy to her notes and lesson books. “I found the visiting queen’s missing emerald earring after the Midsummer banquet and I kept it. I never told anyone but you about that, and I kept it hidden behind the green book on my shelf. I sewed a little charm of dry rosehips and snuck it into your lute case three summers ago with a note folded up inside to keep you safe on the road. I bought it from a sorceress who came to visit the castle. Shall I tell you what it said?”

There was a hollow clunking noise and Jaskier’s voice came closer, alert. “Ciri?” he whispered.

“Now you tell _me_ a secret. He changes, doesn’t he? _You_ could be a trick. What did it say?”

Jaskier’s voice whispered quietly back in hushed melody:

_“Let this be my Blessing Song, protect this Friend from Greed._

_Guard him in his Travels: my dear Dandelion Seed.”_

Ciri felt tears well up in her eyes and she closed the distance between them. She winced as her middle finger buckled against something cold and smooth. In the darkness, she felt outward, then her hands closed around a metal bar. She drew her other hand along the side of the cage and she knew it for what it was. Jaskier felt for her and put his arms around her shoulders, drawing her close.

“I was so worried about you,” he said. “But what are you doing here? Is _he_ around? It’s so dark—he brought a light with him in the hall.”

“I slipped out the chimney with some help. Meet Notus, my Wind. It helped me find you.”

The Wind blew in and out of the bars, ruffling his hair in greeting.

Jaskier chuckled incredulously. “You have your Wind!” he said, trying to maintain his whisper. “Then it worked. My Wind is out there in the world, seeking help. Oh, Ciri, this is good news—great news—news without peer!”

Ciri shushed him, as did the Wind, blowing in his face.

Jaskier withdrew his hands and covered his mouth. “Sorry,” he whispered.

Ciri patted his shoulder. “Are you alright? He didn’t hurt you, did he? I can’t see you.”

“I’m fine.”

Ciri sighed gratefully. She indulged in one good, solid hug, before pulling away again. It was time for business. “The Wind can be caught,” she said. “Notus told me. We’re going to look through the books until we find out how it happened, then we’re going to capture the other two and try our escape again.”

“Your Wind can talk?”

Ciri shrugged, not that Jaskier could see. “We’ve worked out a system: only simple yes or no questions for now. I’ll figure something out later with some thought. Now how do we get you out? Is there a key?” Even as she asked, she knew it was unlikely. She felt along the cage, searching. “Is there even a door?” she added, finding nothing.

“Not that I’ve been able to find. I’ll need to dig the bars out, I think. It’s a special metal that blocks magic, he said. These flowers too.”

“If it has no door and it suppresses magic, how did you get inside it in the first place?”

Jaskier opened his mouth to explain, then closed it again, thinking. He did not remember being put in the cage, so he could not say. It was no illusion—it was solidly built and would not budge no matter how he pulled at it. “I don’t know,” he admitted, stunned.

Ciri groped up on the bars as high as she could reach and felt the curve. “Do the bars meet up there? Maybe it has a door that locks at the top, like a barrel or a flask, and you were lowered in. See if you can climb up there and feel around in the morning light. Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can find a book about the metal that might explain it. What is it called?”

“Dimeritium.”

“Dimeritium. Dimeritium, Dimeritium,” she repeated for extra measure. “Is that with an _‘I’_ or with an _‘E’_ at the start?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll call up a dictionary and check every spelling I can.”

“Good girl, good job,” he said. He chuckled, altogether overcome to find her safe and scheming. He pressed many kisses to her forehead and hugged her close, brushing her hair back and breathing her in. She smelled like burnt wood and he coughed, inhaling something that tickled his throat. “What is this? Is this dust?”

“Oh, sorry. I went up the chimney.” Her heart gave a sudden leap. “Jaskier! What if he sees the soot on your clothes? And there’s going to be a mess of it in the room I came from, I’m sure. What if I left _footprints?”_

“Ciri, calm down. I’m plenty dirty already. I’ve got some plants with me. I’ll rub myself in a bit of soil and nobody will ever know the difference. As for the rest, make sure you look carefully and wipe down anything you’ve touched. Have you got a handkerchief with you?”

“In my pocket.”

“Good. It shouldn’t be sooty.” He wrapped her in his arms once more and gave her one last goodbye kiss. “Don’t worry about the bars; I’ll see to them. Wipe down the door and anything else on your way out. If you do that much, you’ll be fine.”

“I will,” she promised, already fishing the cloth from her pocket. “I’ll send word if I find anything. My Wind will carry you a note.”

“I don’t suppose it can _read_ the note to me out loud? I don’t think there’s a window in this room, and I can’t see my own hand in front of my face, let alone a note.”

“Then I’ll smuggle you a candle and match next time or have the Wind roll them down the hall. We’ll find a way between the three of us.”

The Wind gave an encouraging sweep of the room to confirm.

Jaskier smiled. Yes, there was hope again. They would find a way and Ciri would be alright. “We will. Now go, quick and quiet as you can before you’re caught out. And promise me you won’t do anything reckless.”

“I won’t,” she replied.

“Won’t do anything reckless or won’t promise?” Jaskier asked.

Ciri chuckled and wiped down the door handle, guided by the Wind. “I _won’t.”_

Jaskier shook his head at the creaking of the closing door. “You’re trouble,” he said.

Ciri wiped down the handle on the other side and kept her eyes low, inspecting the floor as they started their return trip. The Wind made itself useful as before, inspecting the path for her. Ciri wiped here and there a sooty fingerprint on the wall where she braced herself at corners, but there were no footprints. Taking off her boots had been an accidental stroke of genius which she would be sure to take credit for when one day retelling the story.

They crept into the ballroom and Ciri found the place where she’d come up from under the table. There were black smudges on the cloth. She tried rubbing them out with her handkerchief, but it only served to push the black stains deeper in the cloth. She tried dabbing the handkerchief on her tongue, building up spit. It only worked partly to wipe the soot away.

Suddenly, she froze. Her blood ran cold at the sound of a creak in the corridor. The Wind blew upwards into the high ceiling and she ducked under the cloth and held her breath. One of her boots toppled over, making a small noise, and her heart threatened to beat out of her chest.

The creaking noise came nearer.

Her blood was like ice, racing and rushing beneath her skin. A rhythmic thudding like footsteps approached. She covered her mouth and nose, staring at the inch between the cloth and the floor. The creaking stopped directly in front of her.

Water splashed on the floor quietly and there was a scrubbing. Ciri frowned and lay silently on the floor to peek under the cloth. She saw no feet, no legs, only the cart supervising a bucket and brush scrubbing black footprints of their own accord. The cart turned and knocked against the table gently. She took her boots and crawled out from hiding.

The cart nudged her toward the bucket. A cloth emerged and wrung itself out before setting to work on the sooty fingerprints on the tablecloth. The brush likewise dipped into the bucket and rose again to scrub at the boots in her hands. She obligingly dropped them and let the brush go to work.

“You’re cleaning the soot,” she said, dumbfounded.

The cart gave her a friendly push.

“Thank you,” she said. With damp eyes, she watched the little cloth and brush slip under the table, doubtlessly cleaning up the mess beneath it as well. She bent to retrieve her boots, now clean, and to put them back on her feet. She’d have to clean them again after she went once more up and down the chimney, but for the few steps to the fireplace, she’d leave no trace behind. As she bent to tie the laces, the cart rolled onto her hem. When she stood, it served as a tug: another reminder. “Will they go to the wash if I lay them on the chest like usual?” she asked.

The cart rolled off her hem, rolling forward and back. It gave the impression of the affirmative.

“Thank you,” she repeated. “I’ll change quickly.”

The Wind returned to her and tugged her toward the fireplace, anxious to be on their way. Ciri followed after it and climbed carefully over the grate once more. She waved goodbye to the cart and went up on the draft. The next minute, she was down her own chimney again, bum to carpet, and the grate of wood slid back into the fireplace. It lit itself anew, filling the frigid room with warmth before she could so much as think of fetching the tinderbox from the mantle.

Ciri coughed, now at last safe. The pitcher had returned itself to the basin and was filled with water when she looked. She fetched a cloth and soap, cleaned herself up, and folded her clothes on the chest. She turned to put on a fresh nightgown, and when she looked again they were gone. Last of all, she cleaned her boots with the leftover water and wiped down the floor by the fireplace. There wasn’t much to clean on the carpet and the Wind did its part by blowing the remaining ashes from her hair. She wished it a good night and opened the tiny panel. It blew out over the field, joining the rest of the Wind as if nothing at all had transpired, and she knew it would keep her secret in silence.

Twice she went round the room to ensure everything was in order. She checked her own reflection. There was nothing amiss. Even so, her heart still fluttered in her chest as she climbed beneath the covers, knowing the seriousness of the consequences that might have come from her impulsive outing. It was an hour before her thoughts calmed enough for her to go to sleep.

The only thing she forgot to do was close the little window, and the only consequence that came of it was a playful chiding from Love over their morning breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the longest one yet holy shit. All the previous chapters have now been edited for mistakes. I'll edit the new ones after I've done a couple. From here on out until I say otherwise, it's back to the usual war cry: no beta, we die like men and get our shit wrecked in the comments.
> 
> It's ten minutes to 6am, a month after the last update. We now return to your more regularly scheduled updates, writer's block banished at long last. Turns out about 80% of what caused it was the unconscious need for an intermission so as not to break the pattern. Dumb, right? Anyway, enjoy.
> 
> EDIT 07/15/2020, a little later:  
> Now beta read.


	21. The Caged Lark Crows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings. Contains spoilers:
> 
> Sexual content  
> Non-consensual touch  
> Orgy in the background  
> Implications of being denied water/ food
> 
> 6972

“Bear with me now, little one; you’ll be alright.” Jaskier held the mangled flower close to him, stroking its delicate petals tenderly. After Ciri’s visit, he’d not been able to go back to sleep. He’d spent most of the night deep in thought, and those thoughts kept him awake. When he decided at last to try and go to sleep, that’s when he’d found his little flower.

Love had left him the bedroll they’d crafted for their escape. When Jaskier unrolled it to make himself a bed, he’d found the flower still in its teacup, bundled up in the middle. He’d forgotten all about it in the general chaos. Despite his best efforts, the flower had come out of it worse for the wear, having lost one of its petals and torn a few more. “My poor Geralthus.” He sighed, speaking quietly, trying to sound encouraging. “Still, you’re impressively hardy; I’ll bet his haughty highness was very rough with you in the roll. Nothing we can’t recover from.”

He tried more than once to use his power to raise the flower’s head higher, but it continued to wilt despite his efforts. True to his word, Love had made the use of his powers impossible and they’d be no help here. His flower needed water, light, and time. _Well,_ Jaskier thought, _at least we have one of those three._ In the meantime, he’d see what might be done about procuring the other two. He was sure Love wouldn’t stoop so low as to refuse him water.

“Cart?” Jaskier called. “Squeaky butler? Are you there?” The cart had made such a fuss about getting them to drink while he and Ciri had been out in the sun. It was such a determined caretaker. He waited to hear the squeak of its polite wheels from beyond the closed door, but it was silent. “Fine then. Ah, Room, or what should I call it—House? Temple? Might I have a glass of water?”

He waited, watching with his back against the bars so that he might see a glass appear. When nothing changed, he twisted around to see if it might’ve been set behind him or at his side where he might not have seen, but there was nothing wherever he looked. As the minutes passed it became clear that nothing was bound to happen anytime soon. Accepting defeat, he leaned back with a sarcastic huff. The flower sat in his hands, poised in his lap, and drooped in solidarity.

The room was dark as night, but he stared up at the ceiling anyway. He couldn’t see where it was exactly. He couldn’t see much of the room past the bars of his cage. There was only a small crack of light from under the chamber door by which to see, and it did not travel far. The light did not flicker like torchlight, but remained the same throughout the day. There must be a window in the hall, he reasoned.

“What next? Will he make deals with me for the necessities? Cold-hearted brute; I’ll rip his eyes from his skull and feed them to a pitcher plant. Him and his deals.”

Jaskier raised the blossom with one finger. He tilted his head, regarding it morosely. “It’s my own fault, really. Me and my flapping mouth. Maybe I should’ve cultivated better habits like he always told me to. ‘Not now, Jaskier,’ and, ‘Keep it _down,_ Jaskier,’ and lest we forget, ‘I can’t hear myself _think_ , Jaskier,’ as if he’s ever thinking about anything besides Roach, his next contract, and his internal glossary of beastly lore. If he says exactly half of what he _thinks_ , he couldn’t possibly have been thinking _half_ the time which I was singing. But now I’ve gone and made another mess because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut and tried to be clever with the wrong person. My spite will get me killed one of these days.”

He sighed again and stretched forward on his stomach, scooting the teacup and flower along in front of him until they bumped up against the bag of dandelions. They weren’t much worse for the wear: only two would not recover. There was the one flower whose head Love had pulled from its stem, and another plucked from its roots that likely got mangled in the process. That was what he guessed, at least. In truth, it was another casualty of disrespect: the flower plucked by the harpist in the marketplace.

“If you were born from my magic, I hope you’ll be as hardy as those rose bushes I made,” Jaskier said, poking at one of their firm stems. Those rosebushes had been impossible to uproot no matter what he tried. They were as spiteful as himself. “I do worry, still. If I cannot use my magic, are you cut off from it? Will you die like ordinary flowers if I can’t give you light?”

That was his primary concern. Without sunlight, his flowers would not live long and he would be truly alone. He did not want to sit by himself and watch them die. How he hated sitting around doing nothing! Even more, he hated having to rely on Ciri. Researching and organizing their escape on her own was a burden he would never have placed on her shoulders, yet there was nothing to be done. She wore the mantle of responsibility bravely, but he was the adult, and he knew he ought to have taken better care for her sake.

As instructed, he’d climbed the bars of the cage up to the top, but found no opening. It had been difficult with the oil making everything slick, and he’d spent a great deal of time wiping at the stuff with the comforter that made his roll. There was not a single loose bar, and he’d spent an hour or so kicking, ramming, and jiggling at each and every one. The metal was impossibly strong and well sunken into the floor. He considered that the cage had been lowered down and tried pulling, but it was too heavy to lift. There was no pulley system or chain above him either. Just how in the seven hells was the cage contrived?

He picked at one of the pavestones in the middle of the floor. “Maybe he carried me up through a tunnel of some sort,” he joked. It wouldn’t budge either. A tunnel wasn’t the worst idea, if he could not manage to escape another way. But really, how _did_ this all come about? He had to get inside _somehow_.

“The flowers are a symbol of his domain and they mark me like property,” he said, thinking out loud. It helped to have the flowers to talk to. “He said he’s used them to suppress my power. The Dimeritium is just another safeguard. And that means … and that _means …_ what exactly does that mean? _Think_ , Jaskier. Everything is telling: all words and actions _mean_ something. If he says he’s being ‘over-careful’ then that means he thinks he has _reason_ to be careful. He’s nervous. If he’s nervous, that means escape is not impossible, but his confidence and his laughter also say that my chances are slim to none.”

Jaskier leaned back, staring at the emptiness above, hands to his temples. He had to think. Ciri was doing her best and so should he with whatever he had available. He had his wit and his memory.

“Silphium is to pomegranates and olive branches as a crest is to a kingdom. They are special, belonging only to their master’s realms. Does silphium suppress magic as a unique trait?” He tapped his temples with the meat of his palms, closing his eyes in thought. “Pomegranates, pomegranates. Eating of a pomegranate had consequences. Six seeds for six months bound to the underworld. But was it because the pomegranates were special or because it was a law being broken? Oh, it would be so much easier to think without that awful smell!” he growled. It was sickeningly sweet, even more so than Love’s horrible hyacinths, and it gave him a headache.

Then he hit upon an idea.

“Smell … is it the senses?” He sat upright and looked at the flowering cage around him. “By smelling these flowers, could _that_ be suppressing my power? Persephone ate a pomegranate. And six pomegranate seeds for an impermanent punishment—eating is an action, but smelling is _inaction_ that one can’t help doing. A power administered passively would also have less serious consequences by that logic.”

He snapped. “The suppression is impermanent!” he cheered. “If I’m right, my power is only suppressed as long as these flowers retain their scent. And his flowers cannot grow forever; he took the extra measure of dousing the bars in their oil! Oh yes, yes, I’ve got it! I may be a fool about many things, but I know stories and I know the laws which govern them and there is nothing I can’t puzzle out with enough time and focus. I’ve got time and absolutely nothing to do but think. This was doomed from the start!”

Jaskier clapped his hands and reached for his teacup, hoisting it into the air. “Did you hear, my dear?” he asked. He gave his flower a triumphant kiss on its petals. “A bit of a rub in the dirt, a wipe with the coverlet, and I’ll have this place cleaned up of any trace of oil. After that, the only trouble is the cage itself.”

Now the cage _was_ trouble. Magic or no magic, bars were bars.

Jaskier set the teacup down and stood to place. He stopped in front of the bars to tap his foot, staring at them. With one hand, he flicked a bar experimentally, listening to the hollow ringing. “That makes the traditional three measures: flowers, oil, and this cage,” he said, every detail making him more and more certain that he understood the rules of this story. “But if this cage could truly suppress my magic on its own, why bother with the flowers and oil? The same could be said in reverse: why bother with the cage when he could simply rub the oil on the exits or run these flowers up the walls like creeping vines?”

He answered himself shortly, the answer obvious. “Because,” he said, “if not for the bars, I would be free to roam. In time, I might learn to call on my Wind. He felt Boreas stir; I’m sure he would be wary now. With my Wind to carry me out, growing things wouldn’t matter as I would no longer need vines to reach the ground.” It was only logical. However, he hoped Love didn’t worry too much about the Wind. He didn’t want Ciri’s to be caught out. It was their one remaining ace and its loss would put a strain on their plans.

“Now, for the magic,” he continued. “Even if these bars did not already suppress my magic, I would have some difficulty escaping, but _all three_ measures were taken for that single purpose. Therefore my magic must be strong enough to warrant such excessive suppression.”

Jaskier smiled. That could only mean one thing. “My magic is stronger than any one of these measures on their own,” he concluded. All he had to do was get rid of one, maybe two, and he was willing to bet his every last coin that the power would return. After all, Dimeritium was only meant to quell things like sorceresses and mages; surely no one had ever used something so earthly to subdue the power of a god, and he needed little more convincing that that was what he was. It was such an awkward thing to discover that it hadn’t gone to his head, and he doubted it ever would, knowing the seriousness of the responsibilities that came with. He doubted he would even begin to make jokes about it for several years, which was a pity. There were many he could make.

If the Dimeritium was not powerful against a god, it was perfectly reasonable to believe that Love had simply used his magic to conjure the cage into being around him or used his magic to build it. Since Jaskier was a young god not yet in his glory, nor refined by experience, it was safe to assume his powers were weaker than Love’s. The cage would have a greater power over him. He wondered, too, if its ability to suppress magic worked only on a specific target: would it, being forged in the shape of a cage, work only inward, leaving magic cast outside of it unaffected? If so, Geralt’s magic might work against it from the outside. Though it hardly mattered what Geralt’s magic could or could not do—there was a chance of self-liberation at hand!

Jaskier beamed and the room seemed to brighten to a lighter grey in the glowing light of his exaltation. He raised his arms high, threw his head back and crowed with dramatic triumph.

“Today, once more, I am a dandelion seed, and tomorrow I will fly from here! I am Jaskier the Wildflower, Bard of the Earthly Realm, God of Spring, untamed, unattainable, and I’ll forge my own destiny! Hear me and fear me, for there is no power that which can hold me against my will! Hear this truth, and know that a god cannot lie!”

His voice echoed with an indomitable strength, the bars ringing with the power of his cry. In the cavernous room, there were ten of him in chorus, though his words were stronger than even that number alone. He stood statuesque, breathing hard. Then, as he came down from his rush of victory, he slowly lay himself again on the cold stone floor to catch his breath. It was the freest he’d felt in a long time, even before he’d come to the realm. “I’m coming, Geralt,” he whispered. “I’m coming home.”

His final energetic outburst done, he flopped over to the bedroll and rolled on his side, completely spent. Judging by the light under the door, he estimated it was somewhere around midday, and he’d been up since who knew what unholy hour. He had no reason to expect a forthcoming visit from Love, and the cart’s uncharacteristic reluctance to make an appearance gave him reason to believe that such things as breakfast, lunch, and dinner would also be suspended for the time being by his order.

Perhaps he was too tired to feel any pressing need for it, for he was neither hungry, nor thirsty. He had not gone fumbling round his cell for a chamber pot, nor for any source of heat to guard him from the room’s drafty chill. Though he was not as depressed as he’d been before, he felt oddly unattached from everything, even his body’s own needs. If not for the blessedly human need for sleep, he might’ve questioned this, but sleep had a way of stealing one’s thoughts and cares with frightening ease.

When Jaskier awoke, he found himself shockingly in the midst of an orgy. It was a strikingly familiar scene, and not one he much cared for. He turned his eyes from a bare stranger squirming nearby, examining the room quickly. The first thing he noticed was that the cage was no longer looming overhead. The room itself, however, had the same setup, seen clearly for the first time: the vast chamber was as large as the echoes implied, the sunken circle in which he lay remained, but now there was a sea of cushions and settees, blankets strewn all around, and lush curtains and banners which hung decoratively from the ceiling. The room flickered with warm torchlight and all was touched with a gossamer glow. It was beautiful but for the writhing masses and their disturbing, breathy, lustful murmur.

For only a moment, he thought he was still asleep, and it would certainly be the time for his brain to supply such a cruel scene, dredging up the memory of his first meeting with the sorceress, Yennefer of Vengerberg. It _would_ come just after he’d learned the truth about Geralt. Destiny linked the two of them with an iron chain, and how destiny loved to remind him of the fact. It was as if it wished to lord over him that it would be so, even with the revelation of his godly status; being lovers in another life was not a guarantee of a forward love. This is what his sleep-dazed mind so depreciatingly supplied. But then he remembered the song and his heart spat in destiny’s sour eye.

The instant the thought no longer distracted him, he actually felt the hands of the strangers pawing at his limbs and torso, and he saw Love leering at him, propped up on an ornamental pile of golden pillows, waiting. He was leaning up on one hand, watching Jaskier open his eyes, a casual hand resting on his thigh as though he’d been posing, ready to be the first sight to greet him upon waking. He smiled with Geralt’s lips, looking too real in the light. He wore only a red cloth about his waist, end tossed carelessly over his shoulder. Having Jaskier’s attention at last, he spoke in a low rumble, reaching out a hand to trail the leather of Jaskier’s booted calve.

“I believe it’s time I demonstrated one of the finer advantages to being the consort of Love.”

Jaskier kicked his leg free. He squirmed under the touch of several others, brusquely batting them all away. “Get your hands off me!” he barked. He cast his eyes furiously around the people closest to him, daring any to try crawling forward again. Were they even human, or were they inventions of Love? Whatever the answer, real or not, he knew how they’d come to be there. He turned to glare at Love, his face red- hot with fury.

“I’m not your consort,” he growled.

Love’s smile remained. Again he reached forward, this time taking Jaskier by the hip and resting his wrist upon it, hand dangling freely. “No, not yet. If you were, I would not have to try so hard.”

Jaskier grabbed Love’s wrist and yanked from his hip. He held it away, nails digging into the skin. “What is this?” he demanded.

“A demonstration.” Love gestured out towards the rest of the chamber and the vivid scene that played out before them. “A small sample of one of the privileges you might have, should you agree to my proposal: I would oblige you with plenty of paramours. You had many partners on your travels, yes? No need to distance the habit here. I might even enjoy observing your conquests from time to time. I’d like to see you so worshipped.”

“I may have had a large number of bed partners to boast,” Jaskier replied, “but my affections are always individual! How can one be properly _worshiped_ in a crowd?”

“When one is the _subject_ of the crowd’s worship. Do you not sing to crowds?”

Jaskier scoffed at the notion. “That is an entirely different kind of attention. I was forced into an orgy once, and thank the gods, I survived the affair mostly untouched and with very little memory of its specifics. Later, I awoke in a strange woman’s bed and had the fright of my life. I do not wish to relive that episode in any capacity.”

He shuddered at the recollection. It had been long ago, but he’d yet to hear an apology. To make matters worse, Yennefer decided to get under his skin at every subsequent encounter, never mind Geralt’s involvement—they had conflicts of their own that needed resolution. Another wonderful reason to aim for a swift escape. Apology or no apology, he’d rather suffer a hundred insults from Yennefer’s rather _personal_ arsenal any day than listen to Love’s voice droning for another minute. She could force him to write a lengthy ballad about his own crow’s feet—which did _not_ exist, he had checked _thoroughly_ , thank you—and he’d sing it from Cintra to Novigrad if he could trade such humiliation for a hasty end to this exasperating chapter of his life.

“Besides,” he added. “I wish to devote myself to one love and that is all.”

“Then by all means.”

Love snapped his fingers and the people disappeared at once, leaving them alone in the empty room. He crept closer, entrapping Jaskier with his arms on either side, holding himself above his chest and grinning down roguishly.

Jaskier swallowed a lump in his throat, thoughts suddenly overwhelmed. It could not be denied that he had imagined such a scenario with Geralt on more than one occasion, and his heart beat imperceptibly faster. Heat coiled in his stomach as he looked into those hungry, golden eyes, before his mind caught up with him. The weight of the medallion beneath his shirt and its warmth against his skin served as a solid reminder. It was only fool’s gold above him.

In a panic, Jaskier pushed Love away and scrambled out from under him. He huddled against one of the steps, catching his breath. Love reached out once more and Jaskier smacked his hand. “Away with you!” he shouted, voice booming in the sudden absence of the ambient noise. It carried through with a proper echo: fierce, commanding, and positively livid. “I’ve met dogs in heat who were slower to crawl up my leg.”

Love sat back and inclined his head against one of the cushions. “You wound me. Can you not spare even a single kiss for all my waiting?” he asked. The pitiful face he made ruined the illusion further and made him easier to identify for who he was.

“You’ve had two,” Jaskier countered.

“Both the result of a contract. I want one freely given.”

“I thought you were glad to wait.”

“I am,” Love replied. “Though I expected some change by now. At least a true smile.”

Jaskier frowned for extra measure. “Say something funny. I would have a witty lover; you haven’t made me laugh once.”

“Ah, a new challenge!” Love cheered. He reached across the way and tickled Jaskier’s side.

Jaskier slapped his hand away once more. “That’d be cheating. Too bad for you, I’m not ticklish.” It was then he realized: Love’s fingers had brushed bare skin.

Jaskier looked down at himself and found the cloth on his chest was _not_ his shirt as he’d imagined. He was half in and out of a sheet with nothing but his boots remaining. He wrapped the sheet around his body, covering himself head to toe. “My clothes,” he sneered. With one hand, he adjusted the front of his sheet under the pretense of covering himself more, but it was to ensure that his medallion was well hidden. He did not believe Love had seen, but he would take no chances. Under no circumstances would he let it be taken. There was no telling what Love would do with it and he could not bear to lose the color of Geralt’s eyes. Yellow would never be the same.

Love sighed and snapped his fingers a second time.

At once, Jaskier felt the fabric of his own shirt rub against his back as he gripped the sheet tighter around him. He looked and saw himself all in order, just as it should have been from the start. When he lifted his gaze, Love was looking back, expression dampened. It was obvious his attempts were failing, and he knew it. His face was a shade gruffer than neutral and Jaskier had to look away lest his traitorous heart look for additional similarities. He hunched and folded himself, arms around his knees for security.

“Really,” Jaskier mumbled. “Your countenance is astounding. You know no shame, no boundaries. You’re no love that I recognize—only a twisted, lustful cad. You would sooner devour me than woo me.”

“Love is an all-consuming creature,” the villain agreed. “I would consume every part of you, make you mine. I want your attention, your skills, your passions—your very thoughts. I want to make every piece of you mine. That is my nature.”

“I want nothing of you, and I’ll give nothing _to_ you,” Jaskier said. The grip he had on his knees grew tighter. He buried his face in his arms. “And I told you before: don’t speak in his voice,” he scolded, voice muffled. “Better yet, turn invisible again. I’m tired of the way you look.”

Love slowly came to his side. He enveloped him with one arm. With the other, he tried to turn Jaskier’s chin to make the man meet his eye. “Why would seeing me affect you so? Is it that you’re afraid to enjoy what you see, lest you be tempted by it?”

“Shut up. You may think you _look_ tempting, but that means nothing at all knowing what you’re like beneath. Beauty is, as they say, only skin deep. I’ve known beauty, and while it may inspire me, it does not dazzle me. I don’t fall for appearances alone. That is the least important factor.”

“Answer the question, Jaskier.”

“I have.”

“No,” Love corrected. “You haven’t. You danced around it and explained your opinion of appearances. I asked why _my_ appearance should affect you.”

Jaskier meant to tell him off, brush the truth aside and say that he wasn’t affected. Instead, he decided to keep his mouth shut. Love hated being ignored, he knew, and the best way to be rid of him was to ignore him and let him pout his way back to whatever dark hole he emerged from. As the unspoken words passed, there was a slight tingling sensation on his lips. He licked them. It was probably the blood rushing through him. His heart was beating plenty quick, making him jitter.

Love’s unwelcome hand fell from his shoulders with a sigh. From the corner of Jaskier’s eye, he saw Love stand and walk toward the door. As he did, the setting began to fade. The soft pillows beneath him turned out to be his own bedroll, and the bars were there again, solid as ever, coated in oil and flowers. Their smell had lingered in the air, even as they were hidden from sight.

Love stopped at the doorway, a hand to the lever. He turned to offer Jaskier a final look. “I’ve decided I don’t care if you refuse to love me,” he said. It was his true voice now, speaking quietly, but though he was quiet, his tone betrayed a kind of resignation. “I have you, and he has lost you to me. If neither one of you is so boastfully happy, I suppose that’s a kind of victory. If you’re apart, I have nothing to be envious of. I will take what I want through one method or another and cut my losses in the end. I suppose belief has made me cynical as well.”

“I think you’ve been spreading the seeds of corrupt love,” Jaskier replied, “if so many people’s beliefs have become cynical. The world does not become cold-hearted without cause; you haven’t been doing a proper job.”

Love paused, ruminating over Jaskier’s theory. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “My own heart has not been in my work for an age. I threw it away. It ceased to be useful to me—caused me only pain. I suppose that would have some consequence.”

“You should get it back. It might make you more tolerable.”

“You speak as if such things were easy to do,” Love dismissed.

Jaskier held a hand over his own heart. “Humans give theirs away all the time. They lose them, remake them, and break them as often as the seasons change. Surely if they can, a god should have no difficulty.”

“Humans are something else entirely. Their gifts are strange things to be envied and admired. They think themselves so apart from magic, so different from those who wield it, yet your sorcerers and the like do not call it magic. To them it is Chaos and Order. They are closer to the truth, but even they overlook the simplest magic they are blessed with and count themselves special. Kings, swineherds, drunks, and children: the exceptional and the ordinary each have their own gifts. They grow and change, they lie, they fall out of set patterns, make undefined choices, and invent gods. Is not each of these a powerful magic?”

“Ability never stopped us,” Jaskier argued. “As ordinary children will pick up sticks and try to cast spells to conjure up dragons and unicorns, you ought to try making yourself whole. Just as a witcher, sorceress, or humble bard begins life as an ordinary, powerless child, you might find you’re capable of fantastic things as well. Gods are capable of change—why else would they be reborn by belief? Surely we might have a hand in forming ourselves with our _own_ beliefs. We are more than what people imagine us to be.”

Love turned. There was something honest in his expression, something strange to see. It looked old and weary, not belonging to this Love he’d come to know. “You’re a strange creature, Jaskier,” he said. “You reinvented yourself, became something new. Perhaps the rules are different for you, whatever thing you are. But I am old, and I am set in my ways.”

“You don’t have to be,” Jaskier insisted.

But Love only shook his head. “No. By some great force of belief, I could be changed, but I can do nothing to initiate it. I have no catalyst, and therein lies the tragedy of it.”

And so he went, leaving Jaskier oddly affected. Mechanically, he set to his task of plucking the silphium from their vines, lost in thought as he did. There was so much to think about, and so much time to do nothing else but.

* * *

The air left his lungs unbidden as Geralt woke to the yellow sun shining in all its glory. Once more, the world was whole. He laughed with a lightness of heart that he had not felt for many months and rushed out into its warmth, turning to take in all the world around him with ravenous eyes. The grass had never been so _green_ , the poppies so _orange_ , and, taking up a fragment of dragon egg, he found that he’d never seen anything shine with such a bright gold color. He threw it high into the air and turned back to the cave to collect another piece. He found the biggest, smoothest one and packed it away in the chalk compartment of Jaskier’s lute case: a present for their eventual reunion. The lute looked _healthier_ somehow, gleaming with its true color once more. He went to fetch Roach and load up the saddle.

Before swinging the swords over his back, he unsheathed them, having not had the time last night to check them for damage. He did not notice while checking the steel, but the silver had a clearer, more polished reflection, and he’d always been slow when it came to things pertaining to himself. But he did see. Searching for nicks and cracks, he instead found flaw in his own reflection. Behind him there were the green and orange needles of the pine trees, but his own eyes were still grey, lacking their own yellow.

It was puzzling. Looking around, the rest of the world looked much the same as it had before the violent force passed through, yet looking at his reflection, it was undeniable that his yellow was missing. He pinched his skin to see the yellow undertone and discovered that yes, that much remained, and his eyes alone were isolated in this bizarre phenomenon. When he travelled through the land, would he find other instances of missing color? Things were only becoming stranger and stranger as time passed. He hoped Yennefer would have answers.

Roach cropped at the grass with gusto, as if it tasted sweeter with the color returned. Maybe it did, or maybe it simply made it easier to find the better patches among the bad. Geralt sat down to his own breakfast before setting out, and as they began the downward journey, he fed her a peppermint. It was one of the best mornings they’d had in weeks.

Though the days of travel dulled his pleasant mood some, the return of yellow afforded him a new kind of optimism. He appreciated the landscape more, and something as silly as a color brought him ease, made him feel closer to Jaskier. It really was as he’d said: yellow was the happiest color of all. It brought him a smidgeon of cheer just looking at it.

The trip down the mountain truly _had_ been easier than the road up, and it remained so for quite a stretch of the journey south toward Temeria. “Someone up there must love me,” he joked. He patted Roach’s side but she gave no response.

Along the way, he was lucky to find a mage decent enough to craft him a weak tracking spell. It was a barebones trick—nothing more than a stick that fell with its point toward the target—but there was some relief in knowing he was going in the right direction. All he had to do was wrap one of Yennefer’s hairs around it to show him the way, and it consistently pointed south along the path. The magic required something belonging to the target and he’d been finding her hair in the unlikeliest places for weeks now. It was as if the strands manifested themselves at the bottom of his bag, got caught on his shirts, and bred in droves. He could only imagine how severe the number would be if they’d ever actually worked out long enough to have a real relationship. Given how much of his time was spent with Jaskier, it would have made more sense to find his hair in greater excess, but Jaskier was tidy, and there was not a one to be found. He combed his hair twice a day and kept his things packed neatly in his own bag. It helped that he would clean Geralt’s things to the same standard; without him, things got messy quickly as Geralt fell back on old habits. Even Jaskier’ bag had been clear, and, astonishingly, his comb equally cleaned. That would have been the most likely place to find one, and it was unfortunately barren.

Geralt had not been twenty minutes on the road when it occurred to him that he might use the same magic to find Jaskier directly rather than going through Yennefer. Admittedly, that was slow of him. To compensate, he dropped to his knees the instant the idea came to mind and ripped open the lute case. He took Jaskier’s notebook from its pocket and tore a thin strip of paper from a blank page, removed Yennefer’s hair, then tied the paper around the enchanted stick. As the mage had shown him, he set the stick on its thick end, one finger holding it upright at the point, and let it fall. But the oddest thing happened. Instead of falling as it had done for Yennefer, it stood upright, unmoving, and pointed up into the empty blue sky.

Geralt frowned in confusion. He picked up the stick and set it in another spot, trying again. The stick still sat erect. He tried moving away from it, then getting up close. Nothing about it changed. To test it, he tried wrapping one of his own hairs around the stick. It fell towards him whichever way he stepped, but when the paper was wound on its stem, it would only point directly upward.

For an instant, he entertained the idea that Jaskier was dead and the stick pointed heavenward. His heart leapt in his chest and he quickly pushed the thought aside. No. He could not even think it. Besides, the stick searched for earthly things; it wouldn’t locate … souls. The mage said it could find any _living_ being. He had to believe he was being entirely literal.

“Sold me a faulty spell,” Geralt sneered. He ignored the fact that it worked fine for him, and that it seemed to work for Yennefer. After walking along, stewing in his thoughts, he came to the conclusion that the stick specifically needed a hair to work—not just anything that could be wrapped around it—and that the mage simply didn’t know his business and had given false instructions. But then he had to ask himself why the stick didn’t fall over as it had done when it was barren. He stopped thinking about it after that and tucked the stick away in his bag. He had a talent for ignoring things that made him uncomfortable and he employed it well.

Except for where Jaskier was concerned.

Geralt resumed thinking about it, only able to clear his head for a few short minutes. Perhaps Jaskier was flying. Maybe he’d gotten himself cursed and turned into a bird. That would explain how the dandelion had ended up alone in the middle of the field, and why he couldn’t find Jaskier’s scent anywhere. It would explain why the stick pointed straight up, to say Jaskier was airborne. He took some comfort from this theory, and spent an hour or so imagining what Jaskier would have done to become a bird on some dreadful adventure without him.

A witch might tell him off for all his squawking and turn him into a noisy little crow. Jaskier’s intolerable habit of talking out his welcome was enough to put anyone off him, and a curse would be the perfect way to shut him up. But, Geralt thought, his song would make anyone want to catch him up and keep him. When Jaskier sang earnest, heartfelt songs, slow and mellow, he cast a kind of spell of his own. He could imagine a mage falling for his voice and turning him into a lark. He pictured him with a little gold chain around his leg, tied to a perch. Jaskier once told him that a captive lark never sings, and Jaskier was not one to be caught anywhere long he did not wish to be. He was clever and slippery. He could slither out of anything like an oiled snake in a molt. The foolish bard _had_ to be able to with all the trouble he found himself in. His talent was so unfounded, he’d managed to slither into Geralt’s heart through all the smallest cracks in his walls, the silver-tongued serpent. There was, however, no slithering out of a well-laid curse.

Ah, but no curse could dampen his spirits. Even as a bird, Jaskier would enjoy life. He would sing from dawn till dusk and pluck at his lute with his claws. He might not be warming any nests if the curse allowed him to keep his human mind, but he’d alight on the hands of pretty maids and entertain them for an afternoon, twittering and preening. And flying! Oh, Jaskier’s heart had wings and his imagination went soaring away, sometimes without the rest of him, but he would love to fly for himself and see the world below. He would fly away to the far corners of the Continent, exploring all the great cities and peering in at the windowsills of kings and courts. As a bird, he’d be a small thing, sleeping under the eaves when it rained, content to settle in a sewing basket, in the sweet harvest hay of some barn, or tucked up cozy on a cushion by the fire.

A fragile thing. He’d be the target of larger beasts: hawks and foxes, cats, possibly hunters if he was the right sort of game. Would he be safe out in the elements? He might be cold in these bitter nights. There was still snow everywhere one travelled and food was scarce in the wild. He might be starving, dead on the forest floor.

The stick pointed up, Geralt reminded himself. Any living thing. Jaskier was living still, and Geralt would find him.

As he walked, rode, and rested, he kept an ear cocked for birdsong. He hoped some fearless robin would come land on his shoulder to say hello, but there was no song, and no bird ever came. When a lonely moment came on the road, he would take out the stick and paper once more. It always pointed aloft. Though Yennefer’s direction moved now and then a nudge to the left, here a tick to the right, it was always to the same point of the compass. South. The movement assured him she was well, out working, a living, moving thing.

All his hopes rested with Yennefer. She had set him on this quest, and she would be able to set him right again. He was so tired without a friendly song or conversation, no whistling or humming to keep him company. It was as if he’d drowned himself deafened and blindfolded in violet oil, all trace of Jaskier gone.

The day before they reached the border of Temeria, Geralt gave Roach the last peppermint. Jaskier’s scent was now long gone from the handkerchief, but he pressed it to his nose to conjure the memory. Carefully, he placed the dandelion inside of it, being sure not to lose a single seed that had been loosened along the way. He folded the ends meticulously before returning it to his pocket. Just seeing the familiar land made him feel secure that the end was nearing. In one day’s ride, he’d be in Aretuza. Everything was going to be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol this chapter's word count was almost 6969, very appropriate given the scene Love had in mind.
> 
> Beta read and edited because I was patient for a change.
> 
> I've done the math and it seems we have two chapters until the end. There will also be a 5k non-canon aside with bonus content for any of you readers who may be horny on main for Love and enjoy pain and drama, but I won't be releasing it until after posting the final chapter as it will contain very important spoilers for the finale. There may also be an epilogue, but the canon factor is up for debate. We'll see about it when we get there.
> 
> Also, I'm going back and adjusting all the other chapters to have the justified alignment as I only just noticed it didn't copy over when I posted them. One last edit to take care of lol.


	22. Lies and Defeat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning and the usual spoilers:  
> Mentions of death  
> Suggestions of gouging out one's eye  
> Fire
> 
> 12,635

"Melitele’s _tits;_ this is tedious!” Ciri exclaimed. She rested her chin on the open page with a sigh. The paper lifted against her cheek, blown by an idle, curious Wind. “I know: it just isn’t the same coming from me, but I miss hearing him. I enjoy _your_ company, but I wish you had words so we might at least talk while we work.”

Notus huffed at her, blowing her hair out of place before it wandered airily to the end of the yard and blew at the long grass for lack of a better task. They were out in the field once more; Love allowed her some freedom to wander when he was present in the house, though she knew better than to stray any further than the dining hall. She’d gone once to try and visit the patch gardens, possibly sneak away to see Jaskier, and he’d appeared around a corner ever- so casually to escort her and stayed under the pretense of keeping her company. She did not try again.

They’d been reading for hours—days, truly. Reading had slowly gone from being an interesting and fulfilling task to outright drudgery as the stack of finished tomes slowly piled higher than those unopened. Love came now and then in the early morning or the evening to see how she was managing, and it brought her no end of conflict when she realized she felt relief upon hearing another voice speak. She tried to keep any and all conversation short where possible so as not to encourage it, and to keep from growing used to it. She refused to like him in her loneliness.

Love was curious about her reading. To keep him from prying too much, she would take breaks with him: breakfast, tea, and dinner. It had only been a few days; she knew there was little danger in him discovering anything amiss, but she knew better than to underestimate him. When asked what she was looking for, she answered that she was simply looking. His questions, she’d learned, always carried purpose and implication as he tried to trap one into answering something they would not otherwise divulge. To give any direct answer would be to admit she was searching, not only reading to pass the time, so ‘looking’ was the safest response.

It was good that Notus went away, for Love had just emerged from the temple, presumably just back from a visit with Jaskier, and he was approaching her. “I might recommend some more interesting subjects for your reading,” he offered, observing a book and tossing it back on the pile.

“I’m interested in everything,” Ciri replied, straightening the books. “I like to read the things Jaskier reads. When I was little, he used to tell me stories. If he likes a book, I’m almost certain to as well, and these were the books he was reading before you separated us.”

Love bent over the unread stack, sorting through each volume one by one. “Gardening, a guide to sailing—nothing very gripping: nothing you’d really call a story. These are all so … academic.”

“Jaskier is Spring; of course he’d read about gardening, especially if the books had scenes from his home country. And he loves the seaside. Your coast isn’t the same without all the boats. I think anyone missing home would find such things fascinating.”

“Ah, here’s a stimulating one!” he praised. _“The Odyssey!_ I read it once long ago when I was much younger. Well, in that time it was told in the old oral tradition—I _heard_ it, rather. There were many different versions then, people always adding their own scenes to the great adventure.”

Ciri snatched the book from him. “Please don’t disturb my pile. I had them organized before you came along and you’ve put them out of order.”

Love bowed. “My apologies,” he said. Then he straightened, looking at the arc of the sun with a sigh. “Time to be getting on. Will I see you for dinner?”

Ciri’s sigh was wearier. She’d just gotten comfortable. “Can’t I stay outside while you’re gone? You could just seal off whatever part of the temple you’re keeping me from, can’t you?”

“Afraid not. It takes a lot of work to allow the rooms to rearrange themselves, and I’m stretched thin as it is. It’s a much simpler task to put you in your rooms. Will you come along?” He snapped his fingers and the books vanished.

Ciri gestured at the now empty space around her. “Might as well; not as if there’s anything keeping me out here,” she grumbled. Obediently, she trudged back to her room. Sometimes it was easier to just get things over and done with. At least in her room there would be comfortable places to sit, privacy, and the window provided a passage for Notus. Love bid her goodbye as the lock clicked in the door and she sat in the middle of the carpet, grabbing the nearest book in reach.

“Take a note, Notus,” she said as the little pane opened and her friend entered. “Love’s power is currently weak: ‘stretched thin’ as he put it. That might be useful.”

Notus blew the notebook in her direction. It tumbled off the low table, followed by the rolling pencil. The notebook fell open and fluttered to the first blank page and Ciri made the note herself.

“It would be so useful if you could write. Or read. Then you might read this for me. I’d like to set it aside for pure spite.” She waved the book Love had endorsed: _The Odyssey._ The Wind encircled her and she set the book down with a laugh, watching it flip the pages open. “Can you read without eyes? You certainly seem to listen without ears, but you’ve got to be taught reading, whereas every hearing thing is born knowing how to listen. Then I would wonder: you can understand my language, but would you read in another, older language? You’re a Greek or Roman creation, so you might read their alphabet. I wonder whether it matters where magic is concerned. Maybe you can read it and understand my language through me. Would _I_ be able to understand your language in turn? That question is more intriguing than any book _he_ might choose.”

Notus continued to flip through the pages, faster now, and seemed not to hear her at all. It was unusual and drew her attention. “Notus?” she asked, leaning forward as if to read over its shoulder. Naturally it had none, but the effect remained. It even brushed her off with a light puff in a way that suggested she was breaking its concentration. Then all it once, it stopped, the pages fluttering excitedly with an odd warbling trill. The book scooted toward her, square on.

Ciri lifted the book with wonder and scanned the contents. _“Aeolus hosted me one entire month,”_ she read, _“he pressed me for news of Troy and the Argive ships and how_ —ow!”

Notus whistled sharply in her ear. Impatiently, it shook the opposite page.

Ciri blew in the Wind’s direction in retaliation, then adjusted her grip on the book, reading the page it so eagerly showed her. _“He gave me a sack, the skin of a full-grown ox, binding inside the winds that howl from every quarter, for Zeus had made that king the master of all the wi—”_

She stopped reading at once. Notus swept rapidly round the room, ruffling the curtains and triumphantly tossing the pillows from the bed. Ciri gaped at the ink, rereading. “A sack made from the skin of a full-grown ox can hold the Winds!” she shouted. She leapt to her feet, clapping the book closed. “I’m one of the four masters of the Wind! _I_ could put them into a bag, couldn’t I?”

Notus blew so hard upward that Ciri was lifted off the ground with an excited shriek.

“Yes! We can catch the Wind! Now we just need an ox- skin sack!”

Notus blew downwards with force and Ciri lost her footing, stumbling to her knees.

“No?” she asked. She smoothed down her wild hair, brow furrowed. “No ‘we can’t _get_ an ox- skin sack’ or no ‘we don’t _need_ an ox- skin sack’? One or two blows.”

Notus blew twice, waited a moment, then blew a third time.

“Related to the second one. Are you saying that we don’t need it to _be_ ox skin?”

An easy, upward puff.

“Does it need to be a sack?”

Down.

“So I could trap the Wind in anything, as long as it shuts?”

Up.

Ciri debated it a moment. “Could you all fit in a water skin?” she asked. That would be a convenient vessel: not too big, easy to carry around. The stopper would be nice and tight.

Another enthusiastic upward gust!

Ciri laughed with delight. “Jaskier knew all along, even if he didn’t know that he knew! There _was_ mythical merit to ‘windbag,’ just as he’d guessed. Sometimes his jokes do turn out to be spot-on, you know. There’s always a grain of truth to them, intentional or not. He has a natural talent for making things up and guessing. Maybe it comes with experience and age; that’s all cleverness is, really.”

The Wind shrugged in its windish way: billowing the curtains and the trimming on the bed, ruffling her skirts in a way that was indicative of nothing. It gave Ciri the impression of sarcasm, as if the Wind did not quite believe Jaskier could be so clever as all that, but it was more indifferent than skeptical. It would learn in time just how brilliant her friend truly was.

Ciri sat down at the low table and tore a page from the notebook, whereupon she wrote all that she’d discovered, as well as her fine system for talking with the Wind. “I wonder if I can call the other Winds and trap them, or if I can only trap my own. Would the other Winds come when called or would I have to trick them? Notus, what do you think?” She then corrected herself and spoke more clearly, “If I have to trick them, blow once; blow twice if they’ll come willingly.”

Notus blew once in her face.

“This is going to be trouble,” she grumbled. She wrote it down quickly. Jaskier would need to know in case he might have such an opportunity to trap a Wind. They only needed the Winds of Winter and Autumn secured, their own Winds proven safe again Love’s call. She would have to see about procuring a water skin or some other convenient vessel.

Finished with her note, she folded it tight and tossed it up into the air. “Take this to Jaskier,” she said. Then, thinking through, she tore a couple more pages and wrapped them around the pencil, tied it up with a ribbon, and held the bundle aloft. “These too, in case he needs to write something back,” she added.

Notus swept them up and bore them along behind as it raced out of its little window. When the latch squeaked politely shut in its frame, she returned to her reading to see what else befell Odysseus, lest there be further news about the Winds.

Meanwhile, Notus blew through the empty halls. In the time you could wink, it was blowing open the door in the far away corridor, for you see, there’s a reason we have phrases such as ‘run like the wind.’

Jaskier was already on his feet, trying to pry at the bars once more. It was a new day, though the sickly smell of the flowers still lingered fiercely and the bars were still slick—there was only so much picking and wiping one could do. He had trouble reaching the flowers on high, too tired to climb and to wipe the oil all the way around. After Love’s last visit, he’d gotten very little sleep in fear of awakening to another unpleasant encounter—small burden, being now so often used to getting less than his fair share of forty winks. Thankfully, he’d not seen Love since. He’d kept a gracious distance after the nasty business of the orgy.

The Wind brought with it the fresh air of the fields and Jaskier breathed deep with relief. The strange thing about it was how surely he knew which Wind had come. It might’ve been that it felt warm and salty like an ocean breeze rolling in from the south, so different from Love’s Wind which lacked a more defined character.

“Notus!” he cried in happy greeting. “So good of you to come. Have you brought my favorite visitor with you, or have you come alone?”

He yelped as Notus flung the bundle at his chest, then fumbled to catch it steadily before it could fall. From the patch of light that fell through the open door, Jaskier could plainly see the bundle was naught but blank leaves of parchment in ribbon, his pencil tied up in the bow. He touched the dull charcoal tip and rubbed the smudge of black from his fingers.

“Alright. Am I meant to draft a distress letter?” he asked.

Then, Notus produced Ciri’s note, unfolding it and blowing it in Jaskier’s face irritably.

Jaskier made a point of plucking it away and pulling it taught. “Do it again and if I get a paper cut I’ll have Ciri send you to blow about a windmill for a century,” he warned, wagging a finger in the Wind’s direction. Apologetically, it blew against his finger in a funny sort of switch; normally a man would test the wind with a wet finger, but here the Wind was testing the _man_ to see if he would not be merciful for a little jest.

Which he was. Jaskier lavished praises upon Notus for being a good helper. “Splendid job!” he cried. “Well done! Well met!” and other such exclamations. At once, he dropped to the floor to begin writing his reply.

“Hm … we haven’t got any water skins, clever as that idea was. Currently, my service from the house is less than charitable, and I doubt I’d be given a water skin under better circumstances. I wouldn’t have Ciri asking either—she’s already at risk of being discovered with you puttering around, out from under _his_ command. We’ve got to use something else. A vessel … what kind of vessel do we have on hand?”

Jaskier looked at his meager supplies. He had only his flower in its teacup, the shell already filled with song, the old coverlet, and his dandelions. It wasn’t much to go on.

“I don’t suppose we could ask for an ox and skin it,” he jested. He grinned at a warm spot of twisting air where he supposed the Wind was lingering beside him and got an annoyed huff in return. “No, didn’t think so. Besides, I doubt if I could kill and gut an ox, let alone tan its hide. The sewing would be doable. Perhaps we might find a jar in the kitchen—if this place _has_ a kitchen, but I’m sure the food must come from _somewhere_. Then again, it might simply appear like all the rest. Is everything willed into being or is there some great stockroom somewhere on the grounds? It would be worth a look; then we might find a bag or something useful.”

A silent moment passed, then the Wind blew suddenly hard, knocking Jaskier to his feet and upturning the dandelions.

“Oi! Watch what you’re doing! Look at the mess you’ve made of my—! O-o-o-oh, I see what you mean to say.” Jaskier flushed and felt more than a bit stupid. He tenderly wriggled the patch of earth back into the bag, righting the dandelions once more, reaching through the bars. Despite the fall, they looked cheerier in the small patch of sun. He pulled at the strap, hoisting the bag in the air. It was heavier than he’d hoped and he leaned on the bars for support.

“Do you think you could manage?” he asked, holding the bag out.

Notus took it from his arms without trouble and carried it to the door and back to demonstrate before setting it down gently again at his feet.

Jaskier nodded with approval. “The note then,” he said. He knelt on the floor over a blank page and thought, giving Ciri’s note a quick review, muttering the contents to himself, “Up, down, yes and no—good system. ‘Has the West Wind come back with news?’ she asks—not yet, but I’m sure with time nothing will come of it.”

Jaskier paused and looked at that which he’d just written on the page. “I’m sure that _nothing_ will come of it,” he tried again, smudging out the word. His heart gave a leap, startled. He tried a second time. “Something,” he said, testing the word. Then, “I’m sure _nothing_ will co—something! Fuck it, I’m sure we won’t hear from it soon. Will! Will, will, I’m sure we _won’t!_ For the love of the lords, what’s happening!” he cried, throwing up his hands.

He sat rapidly upright. A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. “My name is Jaskier. I’m _thirt-thir-thi-fo-f-f-_ forty—I’m forty-two. Fuck! _Fuck!”_

Jaskier lay back on the floor, covering his face with his hands and shrieking into his palms. It had happened at long last. One of his very best skills, gone as easily as that! He could not lie, even so little a lie as a comfort that his Wind would return soon. His lips tingled, his tongue burning as he tried to deny it, and no falsehood would leave his throat.

His heart skipped in his chest and he grabbed at his chemise. This was dangerous. What did it mean for them now? Would he be compelled to tell the truth if someone asked him a question, or could he opt to remain silent? Would this new affliction only rear its hideous head when he actively tried to tell a lie? If the first, they were doomed, for Love could ask anything he liked and he would be forced to answer honestly. If the second … even silence could be telling.

They’d have to escape quickly.

Jaskier scribbled his reply in haste. He had only one great piece of news and wrote of his discovery since her last visit. Most shockingly and encouragingly of all, Love had been able to use his own magic to make the bars appear and disappear, or else to walk through them without his magic being suppressed while he’d projected the glamour of the orgy—as to the nature of the glamour, Jaskier did not enclose details, naturally. No need to further corrupt the rest of Ciri’s remaining innocence.

Surely if he could rid the cage of the silphium flowers and the oil, he, too, could walk away as easily. He plucked one of the flowers from the growing pile on the ground and enfolded it in his message for reference. He tucked it into the bundle with the pencil and tied them all together, then stood and held up the strap of his bag. The Wind tugged at it, and suddenly Jaskier yanked back. “Wait!” he cried.

The Wind dropped the bag and whistled with confusion.

“It’s too obvious; he’d notice if it went missing,” Jaskier said. He dropped to the floor, aware of the severity of the mistake they’d nearly made. There was so little in the empty room that any single missing object, particularly one so _large_ , would stand out at once. He sighed, then tossed the paper bundle into the air. “When she’s finished reading, have her burn the notes. Leave no trace. I’ll ask Love to give her the flowers tonight so they might get some sunlight and care— _then_ she’ll have the bag. It’s got to be done properly, or else we’ll never make any true progress.”

The Wind blew upwards gently. It lingered a moment, the bundle whirling in a patient circle, to see if Jaskier would say more, but Jaskier only smiled and waved silently. The Wind blew away and carried his reply back to Ciri’s little window, whereupon it knocked for entry.

Ciri undid the latch and allowed it inside once more. “What did he say?” she asked, reaching to catch the bundle as it fell toward her. She unwrapped the ribbon and tucked the pencil behind her ear to read. The flower fell at her feet. She looked curiously down, but ignored it until she’d finished the last line of the note—as is only polite when one receives a present. Upon learning the truth of what it was, she picked it up and kept it at arm’s length. She remembered now that Jaskier had mentioned something about flowers the night she found him, but she’d been so focused on remembering the word ‘Dimeritium’ that she’d forgotten.

“So this is the culprit. It’s insulting that _he_ would use a plant to suppress the powers of someone who grows things,” she mumbled. The flower looked strangely familiar and she brought it closer for a better look. “I’m sure I’ve never encountered these at home, but I feel that I’ve seen them somewhere before. It was too dark when I visited Jaskier—I couldn’t have seen them then. The fields are almost barren of flowers. The gardens are the same, and yet it felt so recent. So where could it have been?”

She felt the Notus tugging at the notes and let them go. She watched them make a whipping motion before the fireplace and nodded her permission, no longer needing them. As the paper quickly turned to ash, she stared at the fireplace, twirling the flower between her fingers.

“Where have I seen you?” she asked, bringing it to eye level.

Then, behind the flower, just out of focus, she saw the blur of a shape. She looked beyond the flower, back at the fireplace. There were flowers in the molding around the mantle. In a blink, she was beside it, holding the silphium flower against the carving. They were identical.

Ciri turned to look around the room, flower held aloft. There they were again! They sat in a vase at her bedside, and that was not the end of it. Carved on the bedposts, papered on the walls! Set in the glass panels of her windows and embroidered on cushions, curtains, chairs, woven into the rug: everywhere she looked were the flowers in some form or another. She dashed to the dresser and uncorked several bottles of scented oil one at a time, remembering the oils on Jaskier’s cage and his note about the scent. Hidden underneath lavender, orange, and lemon there was always something sickly sweet. She smelled the silphium flower and knew it at once. All of her baths had been tainted with the oil.

“No wonder I can’t make a spark,” she said. Her power was being suppressed the same way. She had to get out and try again somewhere away from the flowers. During the time she was allowed out, she’d tried using her powers and hadn’t made so much as a sizzle, but she was always being rushed back inside after an hour or two. If Jaskier’s theory about the scent fading was true, then it meant she was being rushed back before the lingering remains of it could wear off.

The sun was plenty high. Ciri grinned and put out the fire. It was time for another venture up the chimney.

With Love off the premises, she was free to make as much noise as she liked without fear of being caught. She whooped and shrieked with a thrilling delight as she rose, carried by the Wind so high. Her stomach flopped again, but it was a fun kind of flop: as when sledding down a large hill in winter. This time, she’d worn her cloak and hood so that she’d be nice and clean when she stepped out of it. She left the cloak under a bush and checked herself over for soot. Instead of going down another chimney, she asked to be dropped in the field among the fresh air. She rolled in the long grass to get the scent of silphium off, then had the brilliant idea to dip herself into the ocean. She reemerged dripping, salty, and smelling of the sea. Her lungs felt strong and she felt more clear-headed than before.

It took some time to dry out in the sun—she could hardly try to make a flame when wet—so she spent that time exploring the grounds for likely tools. Jaskier would need help breaking the cage, even with his powers. She found a shovel abandoned by the vile rosebush and all its thorns, laying in the thick dirt, quite defeated. She cleaned it off and thought it might do for prying the bars open. If not, she might enjoy using it to cudgel the back of Love’s head.

“He’ll need something to make grow,” she thought aloud. A magical plant could burst open the cage. A tree, she figured. She walked around awhile, looking for the biggest and strongest one, snapping absently as she went, waiting for a spark to light. She found the best sort of tree, tall and thick, very near to where they’d grown the beanstalk.

Curious, she went to see what had become of it. The beanstalk, she discovered, still craned over the edge a long way down, the ends blowing in the breeze. It had not been uprooted or burned, nor removed in any other way. Love probably assumed there was no need. “Either that,” she said, “or his power really _has_ become weak. We’d better hurry before he has a chance to recover.”

Notus ruffled her hair up in agreement.

Ciri stashed the shovel and a thick branch she managed to break off the tree underneath a shrub lining the walls of the house. She spent as much time as possible outside, breathing in the air and ridding her lungs of the suppressive silphium, but the afternoon was pressing on. By the time she was able to make a single flickering flame, the sun was coming down. She hurried to dress in her cloak and go down the chimney again, knowing Love would soon return. Still, it was a successful venture outside. Likely it would go quicker once she got rid of the flowers in her room. How exactly to dispose of them was the question. She started with the one sent by Jaskier, tossing it into the fireplace first thing upon her return. The logs kindly relighted for her, burning the hateful flower to ash in an instant.

“Now _that’s_ an idea!” she said. If she couldn’t light a fire by magic, she could simply take a bit of fire with her on her next visit and use that to burn away the flowers. She wondered if the oil was flammable as well. Better to not risk cooking him alive, she decided. That night, after Love had gone to bed, she’d sneak out again. If all went well, they might escape sooner than expected.

When Love arrived for his evening visit, Jaskier was sitting on the floor, surrounded by a pile of yellow flowers. He was hunched over, plucking the powdery anthers from the stamens and flicking them away, recalling old lessons of flower anatomy in a bored, detached manner. His fingertips were yellow with pollen and a bit sticky, but he didn’t care. There was nothing else to do, and appearing busy was the best way to ignore Love. Besides, he couldn’t risk talking. Not that Love would ever make that easy for him.

“You’ve been so quiet. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I may no longer have the ability to lie,” he mumbled, “but you can’t make me _talk._ ”

Love brightened and knelt before the cage excitedly. “So it’s finally happened!” he cried.

Jaskier cringed. A single sentence into the conversation and he’d already fucked it up with sarcasm! He ripped the flower in his hands apart and tossed the wet remains at the bars, burrowing his face in his knees. He tugged at his hair, heedless of the sticky pollen. “Fuck!” he barked.

“This is a _good_ thing, Jaskier. Take heart, for your power will soon be strong enough to bring the world to bloom once more. We may try as early as tomorrow!” Then, Love reached through the bars, taking Jaskier’s hands in his. “Or we _might._ I have given you the days I promised; have you thought about my arrangement?”

Jaskier tugged his hands back. “Is that why you put me in this cage? So I’d come crawling into your bed, tired of waking up cold and sore?” he spat. True, he was more than a little stiff from sleeping on the stone floor, but he’d had worse from his travels. If he was lucky, he’d have worse again someday, and he would never again complain about camping under the free, beautiful stars! Love underestimated the power of both his pride and his spite when they came together.

“I’d rather be stuck here than stuck in your bed each night,” Jaskier taunted, in a fighting foul mood. “Why should I be stuck together with a god I don’t worship in the first place? It all seems unfair from that perspective. I’m hardly a practicing man for my _own_ faiths.”

Love made a noise like a grunt. “Are you going to tell me you’ve never raised a wine glass once and cheered ‘to Love’ in a toast?”

“There’s a difference!” Jaskier objected. “That’s drama. That’s being _poetic_. It isn’t praise for a god. It couldn’t have been—I didn’t even know you existed.”

“If a man talks of killing a king in the garden common he is hanged for it; irony is not taken into account. Dedicating a song to Love is still praise of Love. Begging favor from the god of Love to bed a stubborn lover is still a prayer, whether you believe it will be heard or not.”

“That’s horseshit.”

“You _know_ neither of us can lie,” Love said, already visibly tired of Jaskier’s protestations.

“I didn’t say it was a lie; I said it was horseshit.”

Jaskier kicked at his pile of flowers and Love sighed. One of them landed before him and he picked it up, observing it with a forlorn expression. “Why are you so stubborn?” he asked. “I told you that I would do nothing indecent. You will have all the same comforts as before, the world would be made green again with the turning of the season, and all I ask is for this small token of false affection. Is it too much to allow me to hold you? Is it so unpleasant?”

“It is,” Jaskier answered.

“Would it still be so if not for him?”

Jaskier did not need to guess after Love’s meaning. “I told you that I would devote myself to one love and that is all. I gave him my heart as a human. If gods are as incapable of change as you say, then my heart will remain with him always.”

“When I spoke of my heart, I was speaking in a more literal sense. Your heart is still in you.” Love leaned forward, looking at Jaskier curiously. “It’s a covetous thing. I’m tempted to look for the seed, see how it’s grown over the centuries.” He narrowed his eyes with contempt. “I’d like to see it wither. The seeds have always made for the stoutest love and I spread them long before I was given arrows. Was it a seed of love that grew into such devotion, or were you pricked by an arrow? _That_ love heals in time, though it scars. I should hope it was only an arrow—then your love would be gone one day as if it had never been.”

Jaskier scoffed. “Have you ever considered that your interference had nothing to do with it? People loved one another long before there were any gods to do the job. I’m old fashioned: maybe I decided to fall in love on my own terms. Maybe I _chose_ to do it without the help of your corrupt little seeds and arrows. Once I decide to do something, nothing can stop me from doing it, just ask anyone. I’m impossible,” he said proudly.

Much as he enjoyed the romance of a fated love, Jaskier hated being told who to choose. Had he not run from home for that very reason? He’d chosen Geralt. Not Death or Winter or some long-lost lover from another life. He’d seen Geralt, followed him, known him, and chosen the man before his own mortal eyes. And he told Love as much. In as many words, if not more.

“Regardless of how it began,” Love interrupted, “it’s a love that’s doomed to die. No one will pray to the god of an endless winter, and he’s travelled the Continent in search of you, keeping the ice and snow fresh in his wake. Power or no power, his influence remains. It was true for you as well. Now that you do not exist in the mortal realm, neither does Spring. You did not meet him at the end of winter, so the end has not come.”

Love stood, looking down on him. “In the face of death, people will pray to gods of life. The human worship of the seasons was already ending—they only began praying to Spring in desperation. _He_ was born mortal and his worship itself had nearly died. If things remain as they are, he will not be born again.”

Jaskier’s blood ran cold. He looked up at Love, uncertainty constricting his chest. There was something in his words that gave him pause.

“I’ll sing about Winter when I return,” he vowed. “I can revive that worship, and my methods will not bring harm to others. I’ll spread our story. If a simple toast to love counts as worship, so can a cheerful line in a song. ‘Long live Winter!’ I’ll make them shout! Nothing is over. I’ll have the final say!”

“It doesn’t matter; if he returns, he will not be your Geralt. He’ll be some other, and you’ve only just said you wished to love _him_ , not some unknown Winter or Death. What would be the point in singing at all?”

“But by the time he dies—when _I_ die—I’ll be another Spring as well. For the honour of those past Springs that came before and their past loves, and for myself, I would ensure my love lived on. I would not be so selfish as to let it end with us.”

Jaskier took to his feet. He kicked the bars to make them ring and echo. “This cage can’t hold me. I’ll be out and I’ll go to him. We’ll spend a merry century together or more before our turn is done, and all the while, I’ll be singing. I’ll sing, and so will an army of bards and minstrels, spreading my songs! They’ll remain long after the gods die out, even if all that remains is a single butchered rhyme from the chorus. And I’ll be with Geralt while you’re trapped and alone in some cell for your crimes against love.”

“You won’t,” Love said so astoundingly simple and plain.

Jaskier gripped the bars of his cage, glaring into Love’s impassive eyes. “I will.”

“No. I’ve ensured that he is far beyond your reach.”

The chill stirred in Jaskier’s veins anew. Love looked so calm, so sure. “What did you do to him?” he growled. The metal squeaked under his fearsome grip.

Love only looked back.

“Did you kill him?” Jaskier demanded. His heart beat hard in his chest at his own suggestion. “I know now that it’s true that you cannot lie. Tell me, did you kill him?”

Love made no reply.

Jaskier tugged at the bars as if he might rattle them free from their place. “Tell me!” he roared. The bars resonated with his cry. “Tell me plainly! I’m tired of your games!” He reached through the cage and fisted Love’s robe in his hand. He yanked him forward threateningly, teeth bared like some wild thing. Jaskier was close enough to smell that foul perfume of hyacinths he wore and it made his nose sting. The blood was rushing through him, hot, making him sweat. Beneath his shirt, the medallion felt cold against his burning skin.

Love’s red eyes did not falter as he pried himself gently from Jaskier’s grip. “A witcher, wandering in a blight, dependent on coin rendered useless by the sudden scarcity of food. A witcher who eats two plates to every human’s one. A witcher, exhausted from cold and travel, whose last memory of his love was damning his very presence, lonely, despised, with no one and nothing but death waiting to embrace him. Can you imagine the hardship?”

Jaskier was silent.

“I didn’t kill him,” Love said, straightening his robe. His meaning was clear. But he answered regardless. “I didn’t _have_ to.”

Jaskier reached for him again, this time, his grip one more desperate. “Is he dead?” he asked.

Love attempted to pull away.

“No!” Jaskier cried. “You always leave me this way! You always go and leave me with your silence and your riddles! Tell me: is he dead now? This moment, is he dead?”

“He’s been dying slowly for months,” Love replied.

Jaskier tugged him back. “That’s no answer.”

“It is.”

“Is. He. Dead.”

Love raised a hand and stroked the hair back from Jaskier’s face. “I have not taken back my color since that night of the glamour. I have made it a lily once more and returned it to the vase. I’m growing more like him every day, I know; I see the changes in the mirror. All that’s left is the color. It would hurt you if my image were so exact.” He touched Jaskier’s cheek tenderly. “My dear one, I do not wish you undue pain. I do not want to watch you mourn. It’s unbearable, holding back my jealousy this way, but I would so struggle for your sake. I await the day I might wear a new face. For now, this is the most I can do, leaving my lily in the vase, sparing you the sight of yellow. I understand now why you asked for it.”

Jaskier realized he was trembling. He backed away slowly.

Love pressed against the bars, his hand held out toward him sympathetically. “You likewise leave me with your silence,” he accused. “I ache to hear you singing. You were singing a love song when I first saw you, and you sang to me when I found you. Will you make me wait so long?”

Jaskier sat and wrapped his arms around his knees. He stared blankly ahead. Love’s words fell on deaf ears. He was thinking to himself, reasoning what truths he could grasp at. Witchers could eat the most miserable things to survive. Geralt was not one to give in to despair. He … he wouldn’t just die so quietly. Not now. Not after gods knew how long he’d been alive. It would be cruel of him to die, never having had the chance to tell Jaskier how he felt to his face.

“He isn’t dead,” Jaskier whispered to himself. Perhaps he didn’t whisper it after all; he hardly felt the puff of the words against his lips. He could hear nothing but the mantra of denial as it began to march in his mind, circle over circle in an endless loop. Geralt would’ve gone out in a blaze of glory, in a heart-rending tragedy, or in the bliss of retirement somewhere at the edge of the world, bones creaking and smile lines defined, so rightly earned after years of sorrow.

“Your words do not have the power to make things untrue,” Love said, voice soft. “Gods and fae, humans—there is no creature that can make a lie true, however much they wish. That is a power that does not exist.”

“I’m saying it now: Geralt still lives. A god can’t lie,” Jaskier croaked.

Love sighed and rested his head against the cage. “Oh, dear one. There’s a difference between telling a lie and speaking a wish aloud.”

“Then listen to me when I say this: it is a fact that Geralt still lives!”

“Jaskier.”

“A god can’t lie! They cannot lie!”

“Jaskier, please be still. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I can’t be hurt! As long as Geralt lives, I’ll know no suffering, and he lives, I say! He’s out there, alive!” Jaskier felt like a petulant child. He wanted to throw a fit and cry. He wanted to beat Love senseless. There were a hundred things he wanted to do, but he didn’t want to be seen falling apart in front of Love, admitting defeat. He was so inhumanly tired.

Love left him then, slipping quietly way. The door closed behind him, shutting Jaskier in the darkness alone. This time, the room felt blacker, emptier than before.

Jaskier reached for his shell. With bleary eyes, he cradled it to his chest. _One more moment of weakness,_ he swore to himself. But the moment drew on, becoming minutes, becoming hours as he lay listening to the echo of Geralt’s voice, and the moment showed no signs of coming to an end. Jaskier did not say, “I believe Geralt is alive,” too afraid to hear what words would come. He could not bear to know what he truly believed. The tears were already too frightfully honest.

Y---Z

“What do you mean she isn’t here?” Geralt asked. When he’d come at last to Aretuza, it was not Yennefer that he found within, but some other sorceress bearing a note.

“It’s just as I told you; she was summoned to her court to address the newest blight. The council has been scattered to the four corners of the Continent. Until they’ve made their reassurances, they won’t be able to break away—one of many in a host of problems that come with being a member of the court, subject to the duties that accompany the position.”

The sorceress held up a summons of her own. “Since the mysterious return of color, the council has sent each member urgent summons to help placate their respective dignitaries and bring us together with whatever news we may have found. She ought to return any day now; she was one of the first to leave when color disappeared.”

Geralt placed a hand on his chest. Beneath his armour, tucked safely in his pocket, was the dandelion. “When do you expect her?” he asked.

“If she stayed a week, and I don’t imagine she would stay longer than that, she should be arriving at the end of the month.”

Geralt tallied the days. It was an intolerable amount of time to wait.

“There are some who believe we solved the issue of the missing colors,” she continued, “but none of us knows how or why they disappeared in the first place. Everyone’s been summoned to discuss what they’ve witnessed—we’ve received reports of a strange force blowing like wind through the lands. It’s a power none of us recognize. It’s something new.”

“I witnessed the wave myself the day the color was wiped from the countryside. I was on the road when it passed over. It was there again, and it tore at my throat the second time, but I know not what was amiss.”

The sorceress nodded with a grave expression. “The color has returned, but now there’s no song.” To demonstrate, she tried to whistle, but all that came through was a tuneless breath of air. Humming produced the same effect. “These things keep happening without explanation, and they seem to be happening more quickly. I fear for what will be taken next.”

It was a privilege to be able to dread what might come, Geralt thought. To be able to fear what came next was to have the means to live long enough to see it come to pass. But he did not say so.

“We’ve done what little we can, extending the availability of stores by way of Chaos as much as possible. Unfortunately, there’s only so much we can do. Our spells grow weak, and the temporary solution is coming to an end. Already there’s talk of corruption: people stockpiling from the reserves in anticipation of their end. I’m sure things are worse in the country. We can live without warm colors and music, but we cannot live without food to sustain us.”

Geralt thought that Jaskier would argue that color and music were necessary to sustain one’s desire to live at all, possibly go off on some tirade about music being the food of the soul, beauty and color the food of the heart. How many times had he heard Jaskier make such declarations before? Too many to count. He wondered what speeches he’d made in the absence of them, and again upon their return.

It was then that Geralt remembered what he’d seen reflected back in his sword. He stepped up to the sorceress uncertainly. “My eyes were yellow before, and their color is lacking. Is there any information you can glean from that?” he asked.

“Not without taking one of your eyes from your head,” she answered. “Do witchers’ eyes grow back? If not, is it something you’d be willing to sacrifice?”

Geralt recoiled a step. “No. They do not and I _would_ not.”

“Then I have no answers for you. I specialize in alchemical magic; I cannot learn from mere observation. Regardless, it is noteworthy that you’re lacking. I wonder if there are other things which have not had their colors returned. I would like to experiment with them.”

Geralt thought of the dandelion in his pocket. A lone white dandelion in a field of yellow, in a place where nothing ought to bloom. He thought of those he’d collected, still green and yellow after the wave had passed. There was something special about them—he knew it. He had only the one withered flower left, its head gone to seed. It was his only clue leading back to Jaskier. It also happened to be the only clue the council might have toward curing the blight.

He hesitated. If he gave it away in whole, she might destroy it in her experimentations. She might find a cure, or she might not. Whether or not she might use it to find Jaskier was not a part of the equation. It was selfish, but that was a risk he could not take.

Geralt did not mention the dandelion. He did not know for certain, but he felt he could trust Yennefer to find Jaskier first. Afterwards, she could do as she liked. If she found him, Geralt would personally uproot every last dandelion in the field for her to take back to the council, but he had to at least try first to find answers.

“I’ll wait until Yennefer returns, if you have a place for me. I carry my own supplies and I’ll need no looking after,” Geralt said. “She set me a task and I mean to discuss it with her.”

“You’re welcome to it, witcher. We have plenty of rooms, and with luck she’ll arrive sooner than you can get settled. She does so hate to be predictable.”

Y---Z

Love was also one for unpredictably. After letting Ciri out for her hour in the gardens, he’d come for a second visit in one evening to see how Jaskier was getting on, only to find him in sleep once more. While Jaskier slept, he’d taken the bag and cup of flowers from his cell. He was in the process of taking them somewhere when Ciri happened upon him, returning from a bit of exercise around the pond. She knew at once what he carried and hurried to his side to claim them before he could get to wherever he meant to disappear to.

“Why do you have a bag of dandelions?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

The corner of Love’s mouth curled upwards, the littlest bit pleased that Ciri had come to him of her own accord, having lacked interest in his doings of late. He stopped and allowed her to observe them.

“I brought them from down below,” he explained. “They belonged to Jaskier and he’d left them behind. I returned them to him, but they need a more permanent fixture and plenty of sunlight. I mean to put them in the garden.”

Ciri picked up the odd flower from the middle of the bunch. “I know this one: Jaskier had it on his mantlepiece.”

“It is an invention of his. Very hardy—it’s been in poor light for a while now and suffered little for it. Still, I wish to please him by giving his flowers their proper care.”

“Can I plant them?” Ciri asked, tugging at the bag. To the outside eye, she might appear to be nothing more than a bored child in need of a project, spurred on by the notion of cheering up one she held dear, but the truth might be found in her grip upon the shoulder strap.

Love smiled. “Shall we plant them together?” he offered. “You can help me find a spot he likes best in the yard. I want them to be somewhere he visits often.”

“Does that mean you’ll let him out soon? I assume you’re keeping him locked up like me,” she challenged, daring him to try and lie, but there was a bit of hope in what he said.

Love chuckled. “Perhaps in a few weeks or so. The time will pass quickly for us here. I don’t want him kicking up a fuss again in the meantime. I’m exhausted from his keeping, and I mean to rest while he cools his head.”

More and more, Ciri felt that her suspicions were correct. Love spoke casually, but there was an underlying hint of truth. He was more tired than he let on. If he let Jaskier run free, she imagined there would be little Love could do to stop him again.

“Can we keep these alive ourselves until then?” she asked. “I don’t know anything about growing things—especially a flower nobody’s ever had the time to study before.” She held up the Geralthus meaningfully.

“I think we’ll be able to manage; they aren’t ordinary flowers, if you’ll care to remember. They’ll take care of themselves to some degree without our interference.”

Ciri held the flower closer. “Then I want this one for my room,” she said. “I’ll take extra good care of it until Jaskier can do it himself. We can plant the dandelions outside my window, and in that way, I can keep a close eye on them, see how they’re getting on.”

“A practical idea!” Love praised.

“And I can wash the bag out and use it to carry my things in and out of the house,” she added, eagerly tugging Love toward the nearest door to the gardens. She would bury his objections under her enthusiasm, speaking quickly so as not to allow him a chance to break into the conversation.

“It’ll be so much easier than carrying my books in my arms, and the cart struggles on the sand. I’d like to be able to read on the beach without having to walk back and forth from the house. It’s also the best way to carry them up into the trees. Have you ever read in a tree? It’s so difficult to get comfortable, only to come back down again once you’ve finished and need another book. I also was thinking of making a fort in one of the trees, and it’s a pain to go scrambling up and down for cushions and sheets. Oh, thank you! It’s just the thing I needed, Love!”

He startled as she took his arm. For the moment, he allowed himself to be pulled along in perfect silence while she rambled on about the care of flowers and how _interesting_ she’d found his recommendation to be, citing passages from her reading. Then, very quietly, “You said my name.”

Ciri looked at him, then turned her head away stubbornly. “Well,” she huffed, “I’ve got to call you _something_ , haven’t I? Especially if we’re going to be stuck with you. If you don’t like it, you can give me another name to use.”

Love smiled earnestly and picked up the pace, eager to help her plant the flowers. He spoke at length about his own studies in gardening. They knelt in the dirt together, patting the tender things in place with the soft soil. They washed in the pond and Ciri gave the bag a preemptive scrubbing. She asked for a basin and soap, an odd request excused with a half-truth that she’d much prefer to do the washing herself, being very idle. The whole truth was that she was anxious to keep the bag in her sight, lest Love decide to change his mind and take it, but he was far too smitten with her new tone, being only too happy by the change from her recent indifference.

“What has you in such a good mood today?” he asked.

Ciri was just hanging the bag up to dry on a limb. She took a minute to straighten it out as she composed herself. “I read some happier stories today, and I’d missed flowers. Seeing them made me think of home.” That much was true, but she could not give the real reason, of course: that she and Jaskier had a plan.

“Is there anything you especially miss from home?” Love asked.

“My family. Jaskier’s all I have now, really.”

Love was further thrilled by her slip. She’d not included Geralt in her thinking. He was her father by Law of Surprise, but Jaskier had been an active part of her family in a way that he had not. Whatever Love knew about Geralt or who he was in relation to her and his godly role was entangled, and he considered her lack of acknowledgement to be an admission of disownment.

“You have me now,” he said in his most magnanimous voice. It felt like a line rehearsed for the perfect dramatic moment, as if he might win her with it in an instant. He was poised with his arms toward her and he dropped on bended knee.

Instead of rushing into his arms as he might like, she settled for placing her hands in his and giving them a deceptive squeeze: the suggestion of acceptance. It was an adequate substitute.

Love smiled. “Dinner ought to be ready by now. What do you think of having a picnic tonight in one of the smaller gardens? My hyacinths still grow plentifully in one.”

“I think it would be nice to spend more time outdoors, but I don’t think we should let it go on too late. Sitting in my room so much has made me lazy, and I’ve gotten into the habit of retiring earlier in the evening. I hope I don’t become lethargic,” she sighed.

“I shan’t keep you late then.” He smiled as he turned back toward the temple. “I’ll see that the cart knows where to go and I’ll have it come fetch you when dinner is served. It ought to be about ten minutes; plenty of time for you to wash up properly.”

“Alright. I’ll be along in a moment,” she said. “I just want to water the dandelions first.” She’d found Jaskier’s watering pot long ago, sitting on the wall. She held it up and indicated back toward her end of the house.

“Don’t be long. I’ll be in the hyacinth garden when you’re ready.”

Ciri bent down at the pond with her pot and waved as he returned inside. Then, she waited. She counted to twenty before springing to her feet and leaving the pot in the grass. Quickly, she took up the dripping bag and dashed round the nearest corner with a sharp whistle.

Notus came to her immediately.

She took a deep breath, then held out the bag before her. “Human power is believing,” she mumbled under her breath. “I believe the Wind can be trapped in this bag.”

With a timid step forward, she held the bag before her. The loose flap made her feel dubious about how capable a vessel it would be. It was a difficult idea to shake, and she had to remind herself that things didn’t need to make perfect sense where magic was concerned. Belief was the key. If she was unwavering in her belief, it could be done.

Firmly, she commanded, “Come, Notus! Into the bag with you!” and shook it once for emphasis. She squealed slightly as a great force blew against her from the front, and she was nearly knocked from her feet. In fact, she would have been if not for the wall of the house behind her. It took a great effort to wrangle the flap as it flailed violently this way and that, and she had to tug with all her might to bring the belt down to meet its clasp. The Wind pulled her, rocking the bag side to side in an attempt to escape, but the top held steady a fleeting moment.

With an exhilarated cry, the belt slipped free of the clasp and the flap went flying open, releasing the Wind, but Ciri was beside herself with joy. It had worked! It hadn’t exactly worked _well_ or easily, but it could be done!

“That was a good job you did; I think the other Wind would probably try to fight me if I put it into a bag; I can’t begin practicing without making a real effort, can I?”

Notus fluffed her hair upward, gentle once more.

“Thank you. I’ll see you again in a couple hours and we’ll have one more venture up the chimney tonight before bed.”

Then, she hurried inside to make up for the few minutes she’d lost. The Wind had dried out the bag quite well and she tossed it on the carpet before washing up, too much in a hurry to put it somewhere proper. She was more careful with the Geralthus, paying it special care as she set it gently on her window bench.

The bag was still there after dinner, much to her delight. After everything, she would not have put it past Love to take it away. During the day, she would practice until she could get it just right and Notus was trapped no matter how much it thrashed around inside. Their test had given her a modicum of faith. If believing was such a large part of it, they’d taken the first step toward the wanted result. The success bolstered her, and she was sure it could be done in time.

Before going up the chimney, Ciri took down the tinderbox from her mantelpiece. She removed the flints and tucked them into the bag, already proving to be quite a useful new addition. Along with the flints she packed a small towel, cloth, and an emptied scent bottle she’d filled with oil siphoned from one of the lamps which lighted the bedroom. Lastly, she tucked Jaskier’s notebook inside. He might like to see what notes she’d made, and perhaps he’d find something useful among them that would further aid their escape.

The next minute she was caped and Notus was carrying her up the flue like a bird. Free in the night, she bid they go down again in the garden so she might collect her branch. The branch she’d collected was quite dead—it would’ve been impossible to break off anything so large if it were alive, but she’d had another idea for it: one that compelled her to wrap up the thick end with cloth. Silent as a church mouse, she crept into Jaskier’s cell. There, she soaked the clothed end of the branch in oil and used the flints to light it. She held her torch upward with a grin.

Jaskier startled at the noise of the striking flints and scurried to the far side of his cage. Then, he blinked in the light. It was the brightest he’d seen for some time.

“Ciri?” he asked. The word sounded rough, not at all like the melodic voice she knew.

 _“Let this be my Blessing Song,”_ she recited for confirmation.

 _“Protect this Friend from Greed,”_ he replied. He rubbed his eyes, puffy and red in the light, and swept forward to kneel close to her. “How did you do that? Have you got your power back?” he asked.

She stood tall and proud, her torch high. “I may not have _magic_ fire, but I’ve always found an ordinary one works for me.” Then she set it down on the stone floor and leaned in closer to whisper what she’d discovered. “My room has the same flowers. I snuck out and spent the whole day in the gardens while he was gone—away from the flowers and their scent—and I was able to make sparks by late afternoon. You were right!”

“You did so well,” he said. There was a strained quality to his approval, as if he couldn’t muster up the enthusiasm. His smile was something weak.

Ciri brought the torch closer. “I thought we could burn the flowers if you’ve taken them all down. I snuck a towel along with me to wipe up the oil.” Under the torchlight, she could clearly see the exhaustion on Jaskier’s face. And there was more. She reached her hand forward, worry creasing her smooth brow.

“Jaskier … you’ve been crying,” she whispered.

Jaskier allowed her to cup his cheek. He closed his eyes as she felt his forehead, like a mother checking a child for fever. He couldn’t lie to her. Even as a mortal, he could never hide his feelings from her knowing eyes. He opted not to speak instead of saying something he might regret.

Ciri watched him a moment more, then pulled the towel from her pocket and set to work wiping down the bars. “Come on, Jaskier. Let’s hurry up and get this stuff off. I’ll have Notus air out the room. I’m sure that we’ll be ready to go in only a day or two, once I’ve learned to capture the Wind. I was thinking we could pry the bars open with a shovel, or you can use your powers if they’ve returned. If you were right about the flowers and oil, I’m sure you’ve got to be right about the bars being too weak alone. You’re a genius about stories and magic.”

Jaskier laughed. It was flatter than the laughter she knew him for, but she heard the effort in it. It encouraged her to reach through the bars and sweep out the dried-up flower remains Jaskier had plucked. She set the pile of them aflame, instructing Notus to take extra care that the ashes be blown away safely. Something about the air already felt clearer, their sickly smell overpowered by the warmth of burning oak.

As she worked on the flowers, she bid Jaskier to stand and wipe the bars clean as high as he could reach. He set about his task stiffly, following orders, his mind elsewhere. She could see the blank, faraway look in his eyes. It made her anxious, but she didn’t press. Instead, she fell back on an old habit she’d inherited from him when she was small: she talked to fill the space.

“Only a few days, then we’ll be safely hidden in Kaer Morhen where he’ll never find us. You can bring spring back to the world and everything will be alright. Notus is strong enough to lift me, and if we use both of our Winds they ought to lift us without trouble. They can drop us off right at the stronghold gates, then I want to send them for Geralt in case you-know-who tries going after him. Of course, by then we’d surely be able to send word to one of the other gods, but I’d like to hurry us together to be safe, and I’m sure he’s anxious to know what’s become of you, especially in the wake of the blight. He’s probably dying for news of you.”

Jaskier twitched at the mention of Geralt, his hands still against the bars, no longer wiping. He looked pale in the light of the torch. There was a visible shaking of his shoulders and he suddenly clutched himself and took to his knees, head tucked, trying to suppress a strangled noise.

Ciri was at his side at once, torch in hand. “Jaskier! What’s wrong?” She reached through the bars to take his hands, thinking the oil had stung him. It was likely where magic was concerned. She held the torch close so that its light might reveal the injury. Did it hurt, being in the cage? She would wring Love’s neck for what he’d done. How valiantly Jaskier had tried to withhold the truth for so long. She knew she had to work even harder to break him out.

“I can’t tell you,” Jaskier said, trying to push her hands away gently. “Please, I’m begging you to ask me no more; I can’t bear to think about him now. Not just now, Ciri.”

“Do you mean Geralt?” Ciri’s heart fluttered nervously in her chest. Geralt was the one subject Jaskier spoke of endlessly, all her years growing up. He could never tire of talking about him, and doing so brought him comfort, even when relaying their most terrible adventures.

The only time he’d refused to speak more was when Ciri had asked for further details about the djinn adventure, and Jaskier would not relent for all her bribery and wheedling. Jaskier had complained plenty about the sorceress and Ciri had pieced together that part of the story through double entendre and implication, but there was one part that he hated most of all, and could never quite bring himself to mention, despite the glorified recitations of his own near- death experience upon which the story centered. But she knew there was more to he wasn’t saying.

Firmly, Ciri placed her hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “Jaskier,” she said.

He raised his head reluctantly, not quite meeting her eye.

She hid the waver in her voice as best she could, but the fear was something she could not hide when she spoke. “Has something happened to Geralt?”

“He’s …”

Jaskier’s tongue weighed heavy in his mouth and his lips tingled with a warning burn. A comforting lie was trapped between his clenched teeth, and the muscle in his jaw constricted as he tried to fight against the compulsion to tell her the truth. All he asked was one more comforting lie.

“Geralt—”

“No,” she interjected, ripping her hand away and turning. She scurried away from the cage, her heart beating hard, nearly loud enough to drown out whatever words he meant to speak. But not quite. “No, I don’t want you to say it. I don’t want to hear it. I know that pause _twice_ too well, I can’t listen to another one now.”

Jaskier reached toward her. “Ciri, I’m s—”

“Don’t you dare apologize!” she snapped, the anger echoing in the empty chamber, doubtlessly beyond. She ripped the towel from his hands and shook it at him as hot tears gathered in her eyes. “Don’t you do it! You don’t make false apologies—not to me!”

She clung to the cloth, hands shaking. Jaskier never once made a fake apology to her, not even for the simplest things. He would not apologize even to end a petty fight if he wasn’t in the wrong. He only made apologies he meant.

“I can’t bear for you to mean it, and if you say it, you will. If you do, that means it’s true. But it can’t be true. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Jaskier shook his head, his eyes hidden from the light by his hair as he bent lower. It was as if the weight of the admission itself was pulling him to his knees, yet unspoken. He couldn’t form words of his own. All he could do was parrot back the words she’d given him.

“It isn’t fair,” he said.

Those three words alone were too much.

Ciri gave a cry and bolted through the door, heedless of Jaskier’s protests. She raced blindly down the halls. The Wind encircled her, whipping side to side imploringly, nervously, but she could not feel it. There was something raw welling up inside her. Like static, it clung and crackled, an invisible force that threatened to overpower her.

When she entered the ballroom, she hurled her torch and cloth into the fireplace. Without a moment’s hesitation, the logs were ablaze, flames climbing high into the flue. In her distress, she did not think of going up the chimney. She’d lost reason and practicality, blinded by the unthinkable. Her feet carried her quite naturally to her room: a habit born of many days being escorted to and from at Love’s side. When she threw her shoulder against the door, the lock gave an explosive snap and relented. The door crashed open and she stumbled over the carpet, banging her knee on the hard floor beneath. She fell forward, nearly knocking herself against the window bench. Her nose brushed up against the cushion, disturbing it, and there came a tiny clatter of rattling ceramic. She reached forward instinctively and caught the teacup before the Geralthus could tip over the edge.

She stared at it, eyes stinging with tears, ready to spill over in torrents at a moment’s notice. The Geralthus stood limp, its head bowed on the stalk. A few days of improper care and it would die. The symbol of its namesake, wither and die. How could she care for it? She didn’t even know what the flower needed. It was just another stranger she would have to part with prematurely.

In one fell swoop, she’d lost it all. There was nothing left but this token, and it would be gone soon as well. The hero of her childhood, shining knight of every bedtime story, gone forever. The father that destiny had meant for her, snatched away before they had even had the chance to meet.

How many times had she imagined that meeting? How many ways had she planned to say that first hello? She reached out to touch one of the velvety petals, knowing now she would never touch his hand or know his smile, his voice. She would never know firsthand that gruff exterior that hid a kind and caring heart. She would not be told off for singing or laughing too loudly, or disobediently following along on a hunt. He’d never say her name.

The petal broke beneath her careful finger.

Ciri watched it drop to the floor, too heavy to even drift delicately down. It sat like a dead thing, mocking her. In that moment, something likewise broke within her like a dreaded crack in a great dam which holds back the flood. The flower and vessel crushed to her chest, she curled over herself and screamed.

All around the room, fire burst forth, igniting the imperious walls and curtains. A vile shriek pierced through the air, resounding her fury and pain hundredfold. The windows rattled in their frames. The beautiful skylight burst and glass showered down around her. The fireplace was an inferno. From the adjacent room came the discordant cacophony of an untamed orchestra, instruments falling from their displays, the harp’s feet splintered beneath it and all the strings come loose. The wardrobe fell on its side, contents spilling out, velvet trimmed with lace now trimmed with flames. The dresser thundered and shuddered as it leapt with the unearthly tremors, its drawers opening and closing, contents jumping out and crashing down. Smoke and the overwhelming stench of no less than a dozen scented bath oils filled the room in a suffocating cloud.

In the wake of the chaotic scream, all left untouched were Ciri, her flower, and the remains of the carpet upon which she lay.

By the time Love arrived to investigate, Ciri was flat on the floor, unconscious among the smoldering remains. He stepped carefully over a few still flaming embers to retrieve her. As he knelt to collect her, he stared wide-eyed at the ruined scene, bewildered and pale. The silphium flowers were all burnt to ash, every pane of glass shattered. He touched one smoking chair and recoiled at the bite of hidden coals within.

Love raised a hand to the air, then lowered it again as it trembled. It fell weakly at his side and he let it lie a moment before clenching his fingers into a white-knuckled fist. Abandoning the room, he cradled Ciri in his arms and walked down the long, dark hall, quietly stamping out scattered flames as he went. Her destruction reached well into the hall, tendrils of flame curling up the walls and floor. He lay Ciri in Jaskier’s bed—bag and all—and tucked her under the topmost coverlet. He did not wipe the soot from her face, but instead stared at it in anger. In awe.

In fear.

The large fireplace stood like an overbearing presence in the room. He snapped at it and it sank into the wall, replaced by a decorative tapestry, borrowed from some other wall in the temple. Or perhaps it was the wall itself that was borrowed. In addition, the lamps faded away from each corner of the room. In a matter of minutes, there was not a candle or wick to be found. Even the tinderbox had gone the way of the fireplace, taken along with the mantle as one piece of the whole.

The flower stayed clutched in Ciri’s hands.

When she awoke next morning, she knew there would be no midnight ventures again. Love was ever at her side when he took her out. He did not comment on the room, nor on the change in her accommodations, and she did not encourage him to speak. She saw plainly that he was preoccupied with private thoughts, in much the same state she was.

She did not contact Jaskier. Her wind had been frightened off somewhere and she did not hear its comforting whistle for many days. Try as she might, the windows of the room would not open; even the little latched pane stuck in place. If she tried to stick a note under the door, it would bunch up in her hand. There was no space underneath the tight seal for the Wind to enter through, and no chimney to go in or out. She was utterly alone and trapped.

Ciri spent her days in mindless routine and silence, overburdened with the accumulation of an insurmountable grief. For too long she’d carried on by herself and run with a frantic goal on the evading horizon: find Geralt of Rivia. She’d had no time for tears, living in a state of shock. Then she’d found Jaskier and a new battle with new tasks to keep her occupied. Now, there was nothing. She was entombed with only her thoughts, and grief had finally risen, dragged behind her heels on an invisible chain for so long, growing shorter length by length. Now the chain was nothing more than a cuff and grief had risen to enfold her in its bloodied embrace. She succumbed to it in the end and cried with the heavy curtains drawn, only the ticking of the endless clock to mark the passing time—an ornamental gesture. Time had no meaning for them now.

What was time to the unwilling gods?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one clocks in at 12,600 words—hence why it was a whole month between updates! There was a lot to get through before the end and I think a couple long chapters are a good way to wrap things up. One more chapter to go, then the epilogue. Ah, how time flies. To do a final intermission or not: that is the question. With this new chapter, it will make the usual three. I'll think on it while I write.
> 
> Quotes from The Odyssey pulled from here. Give it a read sometime:  
> https://www.boyle.kyschools.us/UserFiles/88/The%20Odyssey.pdf


	23. QUINARY INTERMISSION - DOODLES & ART

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The full render isn't strictly canon as you'll soon read; Love can't levitate and shoot lightning. It's purely for drama and aesthetics. Lighting is COOL and I reeeaaaalllly wanted to draw some lmao. Anyway, chapters will be up in a minute. Yes plural. Turns out, the ending was ridiculously long for a single chapter. Had to cut it up into three lol. My bad.
> 
> Some building pieces used in the 3D render were modified works from the Sketchup 3D Warehouse:  
> 'Vaulted Ceiling' by LZ Design  
> 'Columns and arches' by Hermes  
> 'Classic Archway' by Mystic Interiors
> 
> Main pieces also available on tumblr:
> 
> https://rebrandedbard.tumblr.com/post/628218079661391872/intermission-featuring-the-caged-lark-and-a  
> https://rebrandedbard.tumblr.com/post/630654528270761984/loved-experimenting-with-this-piece-for-an


	24. Dandelion Wishes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for people yelling, stuff being thrown, fire, and being restrained.
> 
> 11,135

Long hours passed, marking hollow days born of tedium and triviality. The halls were empty. No one spoke. There was no noise but the ticking of the lonely clock on the wall and the burdened breath of two captives, alike in their mechanical indifference. It no longer mattered whether there came a sigh or a sob. It was the same if there came nothing at all. In time, that was all that was left, all the thoughts worn to the stub, hearts too sunk in their chests to give a paltry beat. What was left? What tethered them to the world below? Naught but duty and memory.

The question of how long he’d been above ceased to cross Jaskier’s mind. It had been summer when he’d been taken and an eternal winter starved the world. The seasons had lost their meaning as well, broken from the law of time. Jaskier was adrift from it all: time, duty, and destiny. Geralt was dead beyond any hope of merciful recovering, never to be born again, the cycle broken. Not that it mattered, he resolved grimly; those who would have worshipped and prayed to whatever divine role he performed would soon follow him in death and all the pantheon would dissolve. Jaskier would let it. No more deals, no more schemes. The people would no longer be a bargaining chip for him. What good would it do to supply these silent gods with their devotees? To go so long without interfering on the people’s behalf was all he needed to know of their nature. The gods were unworthy of their rank and he would see them torn from their heathen roots.

“If life could grant me one blessing, it would give me that impossible power: the power to make things true,” he said, his voice weak from disuse. “I would sing you back into being. You asked for a blessing once. You asked it from life and _I_ granted it, and walking down the mountain alone, I took myself off your hands. If I am Spring, am I not therefore Life? Can I grant myself no blessing; no single, wretched blessing?”

Jaskier did not mark the passing of time. The light under the door was not bright enough to penetrate the shadows which entrapped him and he took no notice. There came no breakfast, lunch, or dinner to betray the hour and he cared not for them. Once, he might have found this monotony restless and confining. Now, he hardly moved from one place and whatever cares he had for variety or interest passed him by.

Love came to visit often. He was beautiful, and too much like Geralt in the dark. Some days, it was easy enough to pretend Geralt was the one standing before him, perfumed with hyacinths. There was no familiar yellow glow from his eyes, but Jaskier could pretend. Today, he told himself, his witcher’s eyes were closed as he spoke. Perhaps he’d had a potion and they had gone black. And the hyacinths: he’d just come from some great lord’s estate, back from collecting his pay and the smell of the garden came trailing behind him in the air, clinging to his armour.

Love came one day, indistinguishable from all the rest, for a visit. There was no special reason for it, nothing had changed in the usual conversation or his attitude. Yet, this visit, Jaskier’s eyes did not wander as they would toward the floor or turn away in spite. No. He stared awhile at Love when he spoke. He did so for quite some time, until Love took notice. Love asked him what the trouble was, for what caused Jaskier to watch him so intently.

“Be still a moment,” Jaskier said. It was the first he’d spoken in many visits, having long given up the habit of talking back.

Love looked on curiously in silence. He rested, leaning in toward the cage. He did not move as he waited for Jaskier to speak more.

But Jaskier did not speak. Instead, he pulled closer, reaching through the bars with his hand extended toward Love’s face. In his weakness, he cupped Love’s cheek in one hand, ran a thumb over the stubble of a poorly- tended shave. Jaskier looked and saw not Love, but the reflection of his loss. He’d not been able to say goodbye, had not even had a chance to speak his heart clearly. Words came to him that he might have said, given the chance. He wondered if he might say them now, get them out so that they might not continue to weigh down his heavy heart.

Another hand slipped warmly over his knuckles, caressing his skin. Love pressed Jaskier’s hand closer. He closed his eyes and they knelt together in perfect stillness. Then, Love turned his head and pressed a soft kiss to Jaskier’s palm.

Jaskier moaned in hollow anguish. He pulled his hand away once more and Love let it slip gently free. Jaskier clutched it to his chest and doubled over, his head bent low. Somewhere in the depths of his heart he must have kept a sob in reserve, or it must have gotten stuck in his throat, unable to escape before when he thought he’d cried his last.

“One night, Jaskier.”

He shook his head, eyes shut against Love’s bartering as if he might block him out thus.

“One night being held. One night of comfortable rest eye to eye, and I will bring you with me to the world below. There will be green in the land again. The people will thrive.”

Jaskier put his hands to his ears. He refused to reply.

Love set a hand on his shoulder and Jaskier did not have the strength to pull away. “You deny yourself so much. How much spite remains?”

“Enough,” Jaskier croaked, both an answer and a plea.

“You lean into my touch even now. You long for affection, and I would give it to you so readily if you would allow me. I would wrap you in my arms. I would hold you. Dear one, I would kiss you if you only asked.”

Love’s hand snaked its way under Jaskier’s chin. When he lifted it, Jaskier did not tear away. He let himself be made to look. It hurt to do it, but it hurt worse not to. When Love spoke, his voice was different again, and it pained him to hear those words fall from his lips in Geralt’s voice.

“Would you kiss me willingly as I am now?”

Jaskier closed his eyes. He took a breath and felt the warmth of the tender touch, but it was not the warmth he sought. Witchers ran hotter, and blind Jaskier knew Geralt’s touch from any other. “Just looking like him, _sounding_ like him doesn’t make you the same person,” he answered.

“Yes,” Love agreed. “But in time, will that matter?”

The horrible truth was something Jaskier and Love both knew. It did not need to be said aloud in the empty chamber. The mocking echoes would not spit the answer back at him. One day when he had had enough, Jaskier would break. He was born to love. How many songs had he sung with that very line in the refrain? He was born to give it, and to receive. His nature would overwhelm him in time and make room for new love where the old would no longer sustain him. Under different circumstances it might never come to pass, but stripped of all the things and people he knew, what was left to reach for but Love?

“I am a gentleman,” Love began, speaking in his own affected voice. “So, I will offer you a simple solution to ease your suffering: I could remove the seed of love from your heart. It may be a very old love, spanning lifetimes, but no matter how thick it’s taken root, I’m sure I can manage. It would all be over. There would be no reason for this stubborn loyalty. I would free you of him and all obligation you keep to mourn his memory.”

Somehow, Jaskier managed a scoff. “Take a seed from Spring?” he grumbled.

“If it is one of mine, it can be done.” Love bent before him and took a closer look. He tilted his head to one side, observing Jaskier’s chest.

On instinct, Jaskier’s arms moved protectively over his shirt. He crossed them to hide his medallion, though he was sure Love could not see a thing in the dark. However, the feeling of being exposed remained.

Love hummed. “That’s strange. It doesn’t seem so old; not even a quarter of a century.”

“I’ve known him twenty-four years. Just under.”

To hear it said so plainly satisfied Jaskier. It was _his_ love—his own love that he held for Geralt—not some great hereditary love passed down through the ages. Geralt believed in choices, and he never would have believed in a love not freely given. That was part of the conflict that kept him and Yennefer at odds. Not that it mattered. There would be no conflict now, and there was no point in ruminating over what would or wouldn’t bar him from Geralt. Geralt would never know the nature of his feelings, nor how long he’d kept them.

Jaskier looked at the shell. It sat on the floor, shining back at him in the low light. The words of Geralt’s song echoed in his heart. _I’m aching for lost love fine._ Perhaps he _had_ understood the very confession Jaskier had danced around that evening, sitting together on the mountainside. Even so, he wished he’d been brave enough to say them outright, but he’d been afraid. He wished a lot of things he’d never make true.

“Would you take it if I said I wished to keep it?” he asked.

Love sighed. “Would that I could. It was a gift, and a gift cannot be taken back. I have no claim on anything belonging to you, just as I cannot take those wretched boots from your feet.” He glared down at them, the red of his iris more pronounced. He looked as if he might be trying to bore holes in them until they were nothing but shredded remains.

Jaskier looked back, gripping his boot. A finger prodded its way through the top, running around the rim of the old, smooth leather. “It’s not the boots themselves that aggravate you, is it?”

“No,” Love conceded. “It is not.”

“I thought as much, though I thought it best to keep them regardless. You know the tales, I’m sure, of those trapped in strange lands because they’ve lost their shoes—lost their footing as it were. One can never be too careful.”

“A human fable: one of little merit. If you mean to drone on, I’d prefer for you to sing me that song which I am owed. You are still bound to that promise.”

Even now, Jaskier felt the weight around his throat like a heavy collar. It was easy enough to ignore in favor of the discomfort he himself produced from strain. When he tried to turn from Love and refuse the kiss, there had been a burning sensation and fetters chained him in place. When he tried to lie, the same tingling burn marred his tongue and lips. However, there was no such feeling with this prolonged avoidance. When he thought of the bargain, the collar made itself known, but otherwise it wasn’t there at all. He’d never promised when he might sing to Love, and there seemed to be no rush as far as the contract was concerned. Or maybe it knew that he meant to do it eventually, when there came a time for singing. He so dearly missed it, but he could not bring himself to do anything of the kind.

Not when Geralt wanted peace.

“I will not sing now,” Jaskier said, slinking back down to the floor. He scooped up the shell in his palms. All the music in the world, and there was not a song he cared for.

“Then perhaps I should sing instead to inspire you.”

Jaskier’s blood ran cold as he heard that hum which haunted him day and night.

Love sang in Geralt’s voice, slow and taunting:

_Sing me something gentle: soft and sentimental._

_A song of a spring gone by._

“Don’t you dare sing that song!” Jaskier snapped. He whipped around and pressed against the oily bars, sneering. “I didn’t write that song for you!”

“Didn’t you?” Love asked, tapping his temple. “Is it not the same voice you wrote it for? I know he sang it. It’s there, in your hand. If you care to look, you’ll find it tucked away somewhere.”

Jaskier looked at the shell. He hadn’t listened to anything else all the while he’d kept it, simply listening to Geralt’s song over and over again until he’d learned it by heart. He held it to his ear, searching in silence. And there it was. Geralt, strumming his lute, singing the song he had written for him many years ago. How ironic to hear it now as Spring. Who was the singer this time? Who was the subject of the song?

“Or perhaps you’d like to hear the one you’re most fond of,” Love continued. He cleared his throat and tilted his head back, a hand pressed to his chest, one elongated toward Jaskier as if to coax him forward:

_I’ve gone and lost a friend of mine—_

Jaskier stretched through the bars and grabbed a fistful of Love’s robe. He pulled and slammed Love hard against the bars, make him grunt in pain and surprise. Nose to nose, he glared with an anger he’d heretofore never once possessed. His heart thundered in his chest, blood rushing hot through him like fire. His knuckles were white against the red of the cloth.

“The next time you come here, I swear to the old gods and new: I’ll kill you,” Jaskier vowed.

Love smiled. “You don’t even know how to kill a god. I warned you to be careful of the promises you make. You’re bound to your word.”

Jaskier felt the tell-tale clamp of a cuff around his wrist. “I don’t make empty promises,” he sneered. Somehow, he’d find a way. “If you don’t want to find out just how well I keep my word, I’d get out and stay out.”

“And what if there is no way to kill me? You’ve signed a death warrant.”

“You don’t seem too concerned with that.”

Love hummed, regarding him mildly. “I’m not. There are many ways to die without dying. I’ve been looking forward to a _little death_ for quite some time. And even if you repeat your vow in such a way that I cannot argue for your safety, it doesn’t matter; I already have what I want. The pair of you will be forever separated. I’ll never feel the stab of envy again.”

Love looked remorseful, but it did not last. “How I still would like you to be mine, even if you went on hating me, but if you make a vow there is nothing I can do to prevent your end. Won’t you go on living for spite? Is there not enough?”

Jaskier stared in silence a long time before casting Love aside. “Get out,” he muttered.

“I’m still waiting for my song,” Love replied. “Or do you need further inspiration?”

“Leave me alone!”

“Sing for me and I’ll go.”

Jaskier roared in frustration, the frail seashell clenched in his fist. He turned back to Love, shell hand raised with one finger drawn, pointing hatefully toward him. He looked quite mad with rage, and for an instant, Love forgot about the security of the bars between them and flinched back. Even the old, withering silphium flowers that remained gave a shudder at Jaskier’s voice, as if they had anything left to fear on the edge of death.

“You want a song?” Jaskier asked. “Well, fine! Have them all!”

He hurled the shell to the floor and it shattered to pieces. No crash could be heard, no crunch or splinter. Love’s shocked cry of pain mingled with Jaskier’s, unheard. All was drowned in the deafening dissonance of countless songs rushing forth, freed to the open world. All whistling, humming, piercing vocalization came pouring out, stolen from the lungs of an entire population. The hum of bees, the rhythmic knock of a woodpecker, millions of mating calls from the elk to the crickets ripped through the stillness of the resonate chamber. Here came the bells! Here came the plucking of strings, the majesty of the horn! Present were the made-up, rhymeless songs of a babbling babe, the baying of a hunting hound, and the chime of a smith’s hammer at work. And underneath it all, the very last words of a song composed for a lost love, never to be heard again.

Jaskier collapsed on his knees, hands clamped over his ears as if they meant to bleed. He opened his eyes and saw the remains of the shell before him. They lay there, empty, useless. In the chamber’s echo, he heard only the last word of Geralt’s song: his own name thrown back at him. He knew then the horror of what he’d done, and that he’d never again truly hear the name spoken in that beloved baritone.

He picked up one of the fragments, glinting yellow back at him. The last living piece of Geralt was gone. All he had remaining was memory.

“You’ve lost his voice,” Love panted, pulling himself upright in an undignified huff. “Are you satisfied now? Don’t think breaking the shell will break your promise—you owe me a song regardless, and I will have it!”

“When pigs fly.”

“Then get flapping, you pig-headed boar!” Love bellowed. “You greedy _swine!_ I’ll not tolerate this much longer, Julian! I’ll not have it! Every man has his limits, and the moment I reach mine, I guarantee, the next we’ll discover will be yours!”

“My name is _Jaskier!”_ he screeched, casting the shards at Love wildly. He pulled the coverlet from the bottom of the cage and ripped it. He tossed it about, feathers flying everywhere. He jumped at the bars. He kicked them. He heaved himself about and clawed his way to the top, howling like an animal desperate to escape. Though he could not hope to touch Love, Jaskier threw himself against the side of the cage and tore at him with enough determination that it made Love stagger away in fright, an arm raised to protect himself.

Love watched in amazement as Jaskier unleashed a storm of fury. He had not believed him capable of such a spirited display after so long sitting alone, silent and deprived. There were hidden depths, he now saw, and it was the first real sample he’d witnessed of the resilience of the human spirit, for it _was_ a very human spirit that Jaskier still possessed.

When Jaskier settled, winded and puffing in the carnage of his impassioned fit, he turned one unearthly blue eye upon Love. It seemed to shine and stand out among the darkness of the room. Such was the power of his intense gaze. Jaskier’s chest rose and fell with the force of his breath. His body trembled, but with latent power that far overshadowed his exhaustion.

“Leave,” Jaskier said.

And for once, Love found he could do nothing but obey.

* * *

A strange sound filtered in through the window as Geralt lay sleeping. It was something out of place, in the distance, drawing nearer. The sound tugged at his sensitive ears as it came, rousing him from another restless sleep, and he tried to fight against it, thinking that perhaps he was in a dream, and that he might enjoy a more pleasant one if he returned to it. But then something swooped past his window, carrying the sound with it. He shot upright from the tangle of sheets, eyes wide and heart beating rapidly as he stumbled his way out of bed.

It was _birdsong._

Geralt leaned far out over the sill to watch the bird flutter away. It looped and dove, then soared victoriously up again, trilling for joy! There was music again, and every wild thing was singing to welcome its return at once. Geralt laughed, overcome by this simple joy he hadn’t known he’d treasured. He tried to whistle back to the celebrating world, but he couldn’t stop smiling long enough to achieve a single note and fell to laughter again.

Would Jaskier, cursed or human, be singing now? He closed his eyes to listen to the passing songs, trying to catch a familiar tune from some warbling mockingbird. No, Jaskier would not be so close. He knew, and yet there might be someone there to sing his music, and some bird to bring it from far away. He thought he’d heard one, but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t his imagination.

After listening a long time, Geralt fell into a meditative state. The road was long and weary, and his body and instinct bid he rest now he’d found a safe haven. So, head braced against his arms on the sill, he sat, breathing quietly. Though the birds had flown away and taken their songs with them, there was still music. Where yesterday the beating of waves on the shore had been repetitive and dull, today they had rhythm, lulling and serene. The world had gained back one of its magical, overlooked qualities. It was nearly whole—would soon be whole again. Perhaps the return of these missing things signaled the return of spring. He hoped that spring would come quickly and bring with it the one thing he missed most in the long winter months. It had never failed yet.

“Did he not come with you then?”

Geralt lifted his head at the sound of Yennefer’s voice. The sun was low in the sky, evening wearing on. How long had he been meditating? He turned, and there she was, her silhouette in the doorway, imposing and beautiful as ever with her arms crossed over her chest. She was elegantly dressed, though the hem of her skirt showed dust from the road, clearly meant for travel rather than leisure. The anxiety of a week’s worth of waiting washed away with a single glimpse of her violet eyes. He rose from his knees.

“I can’t find him,” Geralt answered. “I came for your help.”

Yennefer sighed. “Honestly, can nothing get done without me?” she asked. There was an amused lilt to her voice, as if she were flattered.

“Please, Yennefer.”

“Yes, alright; I didn’t say I wouldn’t help, did I?”

She tugged a pair of gloves from her hands and set them on a chest of drawers, dumping a bag on the floor as she went. She strode to the vanity and began emptying her pockets as she sat, spreading a map on the tabletop along with the other odds and ends of travel: coin purse, dagger, loose tokens and the like. She checked her reflection and found her hair was slightly eschew. She fixed it promptly and turned to Geralt, talking over her shoulder. “Had to go through a portal a few miles out,” she said, tapping the map with a fingernail. “The birds were singing again and I wanted answers. I was pulled into a meeting upon arrival and I’ve only just come from it now. I was told you were waiting for me. That you’d come alone. When I heard that, I was prepared to be disappointed in you, and I was expecting you to renew your apologies from our last encounter.”

Geralt shuddered at the mention of portals; he wasn’t overly fond of the means of travel. “Did you see Borch?” he asked.

Yennefer stopped grooming, pausing with her hands poised. Then, she turned fully in her seat, her hands folded in her lap. She had a frown when she spoke, one that suggested a touch of bewilderment. “I did,” she said. She looked Geralt in the eye now. “He had some interesting news to report. Firstly, congratulations are in order for the successful hatch of the drakeling. He sends his thanks to you for your help.”

Geralt nodded. “What more?”

“I’d say he’s worried, but there was something more about him when we spoke of the blight: a curiosity where I’d expected more outright fear. He has no news of the catalyst which brought it all about, but he said the events were related. The missing colors, song, and spring were all taken by the same force.”

“What force?”

“He doesn’t know,” Yennefer replied, “but it’s something distinct. He said it was a new kind of magic, and yet he felt he’d encountered it before, felt its presence once, though weaker. How did he describe it? ‘Like the embers burning at the center of the log,’ he said. Something dormant. When the first blight took root, he said he could feel it throughout the Continent, and it came again in waves with each successive disruption. It began in the late summer, after the mountain.”

Geralt felt his expectations rising, bound to some impossible hope. The timing had to have meaning. “Jaskier must have encountered this source. It would explain his disappearance, and why yellow went missing as well, and music. Every symptom is specific to who he is.”

“I think you’re inflating his karmic importance,” she said, giving him a sarcastic look.

“There is a place immune to the blight with a plant that remains unaffected. Of all possible things, it’s a _dandelion_. You don’t understand what that means, but I’ve listened to him enough to know. Jaskier considers himself a dandelion seed, ‘adrift on the winds of destiny,’ he says.”

Geralt paused. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the delicate bundle. It was faint now, but he could still smell the barest hint. “It has Jaskier’s scent,” he said. “Jaskier held it once. No trail: a single seeded dandelion dropped in the middle of a field still in flower with no explanation to how it got there. It was still yellow when there was no yellow in the land. Somehow, the blight passed over, leaving them untouched. That is the only hint I have.”

Yennefer gaped at the loose seeds in Geralt’s palm, dangling from the dry stem. She stood and moved closer, holding his hand and turning it for a better look. “It’s not dead,” she whispered.

“Not yet. I left the field still alive and in bloom. If we can trace them back to their source, we might find a cure. And maybe …”

“Jaskier,” she concluded. Her breath caught the end of one seed, stirring it upwards.

Geralt nodded.

Yennefer’s eyes narrowed. She snatched the seed from the air before it fluttered away, pinched between her fingers. “There’s _magic_ in this,” she revealed. It was not Chaos. It felt different from the magic she practiced in Aretuza. “I … I _know_ this. I’ve felt it before.” She examined the seed, perplexed, as if at any moment it might call her by name or do something equally alarming.

A draft billowed in through the open window, stirring the seeds. Geralt quickly covered them in his palm to keep them from flying away. Two escaped and drifted toward the vanity, twirling together in the light breeze. They landed on the vanity, both seeds settled on the map among Yennefer’s things.

Yennefer stared at them, then spread her pinched fingers wide and blew. The seed she’d held drifted toward the vanity directly, landing beside them. All three ends converged on one spot. Very deliberately, Yennefer turned to Geralt and asked, “Where did you find this valley of dandelions?”

“In the hills of Redania,” he replied. “Between the Kestrel Mountains and the Arc Gulf, a few days’ ride from Hengfors.”

Yennefer tugged him forward. “There?” she asked, pointing.

Geralt looked. The seeds had landed on the map, right in the center of Redania, on the path Jaskier would have taken from Caingorn to the coast. His breath caught and he opened his fist. The breeze stirred again as if commanded, and the seeds all joined as one, twisting and swirling over the point on the map.

Yennefer started gathering Geralt’s things at once. While he stood, still processing the spiraling seeds, she shoved his bags in his arms. “Don’t just sit there, get ready!” she scolded, sliding his armour over his shoulders, hooking his swords over his neck.

“What?”

“We’re leaving. Now.”

Geralt hastily buckled into his gear, situating the swords properly over his back, straps crossed over his chest. “To Redania?” he confirmed.

“Yes.” Yennefer put on her gloves. She shooed the seeds away from the map, curled it, and tucked it in her belt. The dandelion seeds drifted around them, spinning faster as if aware of the sudden urgency in the air.

Geralt hefted his bags over his shoulders, giving Jaskier’s lute a glance. He wondered if he should leave it there, safe. “I’ll get Roach saddled up if you coul—”

“Forget your horse. We’re leaving _now.”_

Before Geralt could ask after her meaning, she held both hands forward. There was an outward wave of force, scattering unswept dust from the floor, and the air shimmered in front of them. The seeds were pulled into the void, circling the edge of the portal before they disappeared through the center.

“Get in,” Yennefer said.

Geralt stiffened and remained still. “You can’t see where it opens up,” he protested. “I’m not going to stumble blindly through and roll down a hill on the other side.”

“Blind or not, get stumbling.” So saying, she pushed him through.

Geralt gave a shout as he landed on his knees, buckling under the weight of his load. He landed close to his vantage point all those weeks ago, overlooking the valley. He gagged and took a moment to close his eyes and let the disorienting rush of portal travel fade away. “Fuck,” he spat, feeling as if he might empty his stomach. He really hated portals.

When he opened his eyes, Yennefer was at his side, the handful of seeds streaking restlessly in the air around them. Geralt climbed to his feet again and looked out over the field. The entire valley was covered in white-headed dandelions. “They’ve gone to seed,” he said.

“No.” Yennefer pointed to the far end where the dandelions climbed a hill in the distance. “They’re _going_ to seed.”

At that very moment, yellow dandelions closed their heads, leaving an empty streak of green in the landscape, only to reemerge white a few seconds later: a process that would have taken days naturally. The seeds which had led them to the place flew down to the valley and were lost among the rest. A minute of silence passed between the pair as they waited for more. Just when Geralt turned to speak, there was a violent burst of wind, and all at once the seeds of every dandelion in the valley blew free and flew upward into the golden light of the setting sun. In unison, all the seeds spun in a colossal vortex, the air whistling and churning with the sound of waves. Watching them spin made Geralt ill, and he understood what it meant just as if the seeds had whispered the answer in his ear.

“I think they want you to make another portal,” Geralt said.

Yennefer nodded and opened her map. Without warning, it was seized from her hands by the wind and carried off. “Where do you want us to go, then!” she shouted. “I can’t make a portal without a destination!”

The vortex spun faster, pulsing once with an irritation that was quite clear.

Yennefer hesitated, hands clenched at her sides. “I don’t know this magic. I don’t know its nature, its origin, nor whether it means to lead us to someplace fair or foul. I feel it tugging at me, and I can feel the static of it playing at my fingers. If I make a portal, it will take us somewhere, of that much I am certain.”

Geralt set a hand on her shoulder. “Jaskier sent them,” he said. “They would never bring us harm. Of that, _I’m_ certain.”

“Never _you_ , maybe, but he and I don’t exactly get on.” She chuckled a bit, then raised her arms. “Fine then. You’ll be a gentleman and go first. If that catty songbird of yours is waiting on the other side, maybe he’ll stop you from falling this time.”

The air crackled and shimmered anew as a portal opened among the flurry. Geralt took a breath. He dropped his bags, digging swiftly inside to pocket an assortment of potions, then left them where they lay. He drew his silver sword in hand. At last, he approached the portal. There was nothing he could sense through it: no sight, no smell, no sound. Nothing that gave hint as to what waited on the other side. With one last look back at Yennefer, he stepped through.

Geralt found his footing clumsily on the other end and braced himself against a wall of white stone. The first thing he registered was that he’d landed before another patch of dandelions, about twenty or so, in a patch of fresh, loose soil. The second was that he’d had a wall _to_ lean against. He looked up at it now and saw he was leaning at the border of a grand floor-length window, all its panes empty or scattered with broken pieces of stained glass, leaving naught but the misshapen metal framing behind. It dangled open wide, part swaying pathetically in the wind. There were shards of glass everywhere, including in the scorched grass upon which he stood. He noticed that several of the dandelions were covered in soot.

Peering in through the window, he found a magnificent room in disarray. Expensive furniture was turned over and cast against the walls, every inch of which were covered in black scorch marks. What wallpaper remained had peeled. A table kneeled on broken legs. A bed stood, half its curtains burned away, leaving the ends in tatters. There had been a fire, though the source came not from the empty fireplace, but the middle of the room. One bare spot remained in an unmarred patch of carpet. What explosive force had been the cause of this destruction?

Yennefer emerged at his elbow and bent to pluck a dandelion. “Does this place look familiar to you?” she asked.

“No.” He’d never been there. It appeared to be something of a castle or large manor house, but he couldn’t name the estate. There were no draperies or ornaments that could help him identify the owner either. They’d have to have a look around.

The breeze swept over them again, playing almost affectionately in their hair, rubbing against their cheeks. It smelled of morning dew and honeysuckle, fresh and sweet. It didn’t seem to want to leave their side.

“I swear, I know this feeling,” Yennefer said, puzzled as the breeze curled around her fingers. She wondered if they were in the presence of that something which Borch had encountered or if that were simply the nature of the magic: a kind of comforting thing that one recognized without meeting.

Geralt put a hand to his chest. His medallion was inactive. He was uneasy, remembering the wave that had swept over the land twice before. It had been a terrible wind, and he was reminded of it as the breeze hovered at his shoulder. He worried the two forces were one. If so, it was dangerous to stay with the breeze however … friendly it behaved for the time being.

“Stay close,” he warned. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with. Let’s search quietly, see what we can find, and get out before trouble finds us. I don’t like this place.”

“Take a breath, Geralt; I don’t want you getting twitchy on me. You’ve got a face like a rock, so be a stone. Be firm.”

Geralt took a breath as she so graciously suggested, meaning to let out a pointed sigh, when he stopped. He had smelled something. He again sniffed the breeze, every hair standing up on the back of his arms. Without a second thought, he dashed through the broken window. Inside, he stood with his feet apart, half crouched in the air and eyes wide. He scented the room, head turning this way and that.

Yennefer trailed after him. “What is it? Is there something about?”

Geralt’s attention snapped back to her immediately. “It’s Jaskier. His scent is all over this place.” He moved toward the charred remnants of what once had been a door. Through it he travelled, stepping into a long, empty hall. Once more, he smelled the air purposefully, eyes closed as he inhaled deep. “I can smell someone else. There are two others.”

The air had a lingering sour note. There was anger in it, fear as well. Anxiety clung to the decorative tapestries on the wall. Tiny salted drops littered the tiled floor: tears of anguish, confusion, and despair. The two unfamiliar sources were strongest in the hall, and Jaskier’s scent lay weak underneath. His was old, but Geralt knew he’d walked these halls for quite some time.

“Follow me,” he murmured, keeping his voice low. He tracked the trail down the hall, ducking the corners as he watched and listened for the residents of the house. Jaskier’s scent came from the very end of the passage, growing stronger. He hurried past an expansive ballroom, draped in heavy shadows as the light outside faded. He took no time to admire the view but pressed on. Yennefer stalked close being, equally cautious.

They soon arrived at a pair of double doors. Geralt pressed his ear to the door to listen and there came a rustling from the other side. He bent to look through the keyhole, finding none, and bent further down to discover that there was no crack beneath the floor either. Despite the lack of a keyhole, the door was locked when he tried the handle. He looked to Yennefer, head quizzically inclined. With a twist of her hand, a latch clicked. At once, the door swung open.

Inside, a young girl startled and ducked behind a winged sitting chair. Her fingertips clawed at the patterned fabric at the back and she glared at Geralt in the doorway. “Stay away from me,” she growled. “I’m not in the mood for a visit.”

Geralt did his best to appear as nonthreatening as possible, speaking as gently as his voice allowed. “I’m not visiting,” he replied, sheathing his sword. “Not long anyway. I just wanted to take a look around; I mean you no harm and I’ll be gone again soon.” Children, he found, were often more curious about witchers than they were afraid. In his limited experience, he’d learned that they responded well when spoken to like adults. He did his best not to condescend. “Can you tell me who is master here?” he asked.

Ciri bristled. She hated when Love pulled rank. “What are you looking for? There’s nothing here you want.” She shifted Jaskier’s bag behind her. She never took it off now, in case he tried to reclaim it.

Geralt sniffed the air. Jaskier’s scent _was_ strong in this room, but he was not present. “You’re right; there’s nothing.” He finally gave the girl a proper glance. He was astonished at how familiar she looked. The ashen hair and green eyes reminded him of someone he’d met once, though her scowl made the comparison weak. “Who are you?” he asked.

Ciri squinted at him, trying to guess Love’s game. Her eyes flickered up to the swords on his back nervously. “Summer. Is that the answer you’re looking for?”

A common name, suitable for one with such fair hair. The gentility tended to have loftier names. It could be that this was not the fine castle he’d initially imagined, but one never knew. He walked slowly towards her, head tilted back to look at Yennefer. She’d hidden herself in the hall, out of sight. Good. She’d be ready to alert him to anyone approaching.

Very slowly, Geralt crossed until he stood on the other side of the chair. He let it stand between them, let her hide herself in safety behind it. “Tell me, Summer: who else is here?”

“Spring. What’s the point of this riddle?”

Geralt frowned. Spring _was_ an unusual name: not the kind to be expected of _anyone_. He wondered whether the girl’s name were Summer after all, or if they were named in code. “Are there an Autumn and a Winter as well?” he asked, offering her a soft smile. It might be a game he’d interrupted. That would explain the sour mood. Children generally disliked when adults barged into the middle of their play.

At once the scent in the air shifted. Before, the child smelled wary, angry, but now she smelled of outright hatred. The sharp scent burned his nose and he stopped in his step. He had a sinking feeling, as if he’d just stepped on the crumbling floor of an old castle, seconds from falling into the basement far below.

Ciri’s nails dug into the seat and she felt the fire flaring within for the first time since she’d been locked away. There had been no silphium to subdue her for a long time, only her own dampened spirits to snuff the flame out. But this was a line crossed. She would stand for no more of this mockery. There was nothing in any realm of heaven or earth that she wanted more than to burn the smile from his face. That was all it took to spark her resolve once more.

Ciri burst forward from behind the chair and shoved bodily against Geralt’s middle, her elbow connecting violently to his gut. Geralt’s eyes widened as he watched her go. Time slowed for the barest instant and his eyes fell upon a bag at her side. It was Jaskier’s.

He grunted and doubled over, more from surprise than from pain. The girl ran like she had all the devils of hell on her heels, not bothering to look back. A shrill whistle pierced the air.

“Notus! Come to me, quickly!” she cried. The heavy bag pounded against her hip as she ran and a powerful wind blew in through the hall with rapid speed, filling the room with hot, dry air. “We’re getting the Winds and getting out of here—right now! Gather them and meet me in the cell. Hurry!” So speaking, she raised her hands and fire burst from her fingertips, igniting the hall. The flames rose rapidly, creating an impenetrable barrier.

Yennefer stared after the child, eyebrows raised in admiration. She turned back to Geralt with a smirk. “What kind of shitty amour are you wearing that allows a scrawny ten-year-old girl like that to bend you at the gut?”

“Don’t just stand there; catch her!” Geralt said, straightening out. “She’s calling for help!”

Yennefer turned and doused the flames with a wave of her hands, smoke rising up to the ceiling as they started to run. “Did you feel it? She has the same magic that I felt when the waves swept through. She might be the source, or a part of it. Her, that wind—this whole place thrums with it. I felt it the strongest just now when she cast her flames.”

He nodded. “It’s a new magic, like Borch said. My medallion isn’t reacting to any of it.”

“Can you slow her down?”

Geralt raised a hand and cast a sign. At once, a circle of purple light streaked through the tiles, just ahead of the runaway.

Ciri squealed, expecting to be struck by some kind of painful spell the moment her foot touched the blinding light. Instead, everything became slow. She was still running, but she wasn’t gaining ground. It was like running while chased in a nightmare, the mind working fast but the limbs unwilling, a great force dragging behind her. The dread of it was that she wouldn’t wake up when the monster caught her.

They were upon her before she could put down a foot.

Geralt lifted the bag from her shoulder as Yennefer grabbed her arms and held her steady. The lights dropped and time began its regular flow. Ciri kicked and thrashed to break free, her mind racing. Who was this woman? Why was she with Love? She hadn’t thought there was anyone else in the realm apart from her and Jaskier. Was this a creation of Love, or someone brought to keep her in check? She tried to ignite her hands again, but her power was stunned and nothing came.

“Let me go! Give that back, it doesn’t belong to you! It’s mine!” she shouted.

Geralt dangled it in front of her and glowered. “It _belongs_ to _Jaskier._ Why do you have it?”

“How did you take it? You can’t take things that aren’t given! That isn’t how it works!”

“It’s called stealing!” Geralt snapped. “Now answer the question.”

Ciri shook her head. Love had tried to steal Jaskier’s boots, but he wasn’t able. He couldn’t take things. As long as they held them, they couldn’t be taken. That was what Jaskier had learned. That was why she wore the bag. “You can’t steal from me, it’s impossible!” she protested. She kicked up at him but he backed out of range. “Notus! Notus, help!”

“Fuck, we don’t have time for this,” Geralt hissed. He knelt in front of her and made another sign before her eyes. They paled, glossing over slightly. She stopped kicking and listened as he spoke. “How did you get this bag?” he asked. “What were you doing with it?”

Her voice was monotone and quiet, compelled by the influence of Axii to answer his query. Even as she spoke, he could feel the control slipping away. It was evident that this child was a powerful being, one with a strong will.

“I took it when we planted the dandelions,” she said. “I meant to catch the Winds of Autumn and Winter so we might escape.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“Jaskier and I.”

Then, the sign wore off. Ciri blinked and began her struggle again. “You whore’s son! You cock-sucking pox-faced _bedswerver!”_ she shrieked.

“She knows Jaskier,” Yennefer said.

Geralt was relieved. This girl was an ally. He looked back at Ciri and raised both hands in a calming gesture. “Relax. We’re here to help Jaskier,” he said. “We’ll help you too, but you have to calm down. Now tell us: who has you captive? Who is Notus?”

Ciri stopped fussing long enough to glare at him. “You do, you idiot! What joke is this? What are you trying to pull?” She twisted in Yennefer’s grip, trying to throw an elbow in her side and break away, but Yennefer was not to be thrown off.

Geralt smiled, admiring her tenacity. “My apologies,” he said. “We’ll release you know, just promise to be still.”

Yennefer looked back at him dubiously, but she let go and backed away.

Immediately, Ciri ran for the fireplace and grabbed a poker. She backed herself under the mantle, feet stumbling on the logs. She had no hope the poker would be useful this time around. It belonged to Love and his domain, and it was something he could take, just as he’d done before. But it was not the poker she cared for: it was the escape up the chimney. She felt her wind stirring around her, ready to pull her up with a word. All she’d needed was a reason to make for the fireplace, and the poker was convenient. She panted, trying to catch her breath as she waited for either of them to move. They stood in place, neither coming forward to claim her.

First order of business then. “Who is she?” Ciri asked, pointing the poker at the sorceress.

“I am Yennefer of Vengerberg,” she answered. “And you might have asked me directly. I’m not a coat rack, little girl; I can speak for myself.”

Ciri paused. Gods couldn’t lie. Slowly, the heavy tip of the poker lowered. “Yennefer?” she repeated. “The sorceress from the djinn story?”

Yennefer chuckled. “Not ‘the sorceress from the dragon hunt’? I would have thought that story more fitting for young children. Really, what has Jaskier been telling you?”

Ciri glared at her. So, she really _was_ as evil as all that. She’d tried to assault Jaskier, and now here she was, side by side with Love. This was a golden opportunity, she realized, seeing as the sorceress shared Love’s chatty nature. She might gain some insight from this little conversation, perhaps learn the end of the story that Jaskier would not finish. Perhaps he’d met Love then for the first time, narrowly escaping capture, traumatized by a terrible battle. Notus tugged at her cape, trying to pull her forward from the fireplace, but she flicked her hand at the Wind.

“Not enough,” Ciri replied. “What happened after Geralt ran back into the estate?”

Yennefer looked at the witcher. “I’m not sure how much is appropriate to say. Besides, you’re no coat rack either. It’s your story; you tell it.”

Geralt sighed, but obliged, taking over. “I tried to convince her to stop trying to catch the djinn. In exchange, I offered her my last wish,” he said. “She wouldn’t take it. She called the djinn, the house collapsed, we nearly died. Saved her life with that wish and bound her to me.”

“A shitty waste of a wish,” Yennefer grumbled. It was still a sore subject.

Ciri frowned, face twisted in confusion. “That’s wrong. Geralt had the wishes, not you.”

Geralt frowned back at her. “I _said_ that. The wish was mine.”

“No, it was Geralt’s.”

“I _am_ Geralt.” Only a minute ago he’d assumed, since she hadn’t asked him to identify himself, and since she was obviously familiar with Jaskier and his stories, that she’d recognized him. She’d named him in her question. But now she looked back at him, the acrid stench of distress rolling off of her in waves.

She shook her head, poker raised once more. “You can’t be. Geralt is dead,” she replied. She crowded against the back of the fireplace, her head spinning. Gods couldn’t lie. Love couldn’t claim to be Geralt. But Geralt was dead.

“I’m obviously not dead,” Geralt replied. “I’ve nearly died many times, but nothing’s gotten me just yet. Here I stand.”

She gaped at him as he opened his arms wide in a sarcastic gesture. “Prove it,” she said. “What’s something only you would know?” She scrambled for a test: a key word or a memory that only he would recognize. She thought of Jaskier’s stories, searching for anything. There were many stories Jaskier told Ciri that he never told to anyone else. The djinn story was the most reliable, being the one he hesitated to tell even her.

She had it.

“Tell me: when you were fishing for the djinn’s bottle in the river, Jaskier asked you what you thought of his singing.” She looked at him, searching for any sign of deception. It was then she noted that his eyes were grey, no longer that strange, unsettling red. She knew how Love might answer with compliments and praises, but these were not what the true Geralt has spoken that day. “When he asked, what did you reply?”

Geralt closed his eyes. He’d been very tired at the time, more than a little worked up about fishing all day for nothing. Jaskier had pointedly ordered pie at every pub afterwards whenever Geralt was particularly bothersome, and paid extra for them to remove the filling. In the two months that followed, he’d had pie crust for dinner five times before Jaskier accepted his apology.

“I said it was like a pie with no filling,” he grumbled.

Ciri stood motionless. There it was: the complaint Jaskier had every summer when a slice of pear pie appeared at teatime. The poker fell from her limp hands. Ciri took a shaking breath, then crept down from the logs. All this time, Notus had been tugging at her, had made no move to take her from the two figures standing in the hall, nor to drive them away. Her Wind had been trying to get her attention, but she’d ignored it. And now she knew why.

She flew down from the fireplace, arms outstretched. The tears welled up in her eyes as she ran. Yennefer stepped forward cautiously, and Geralt edged back, but she pressed on until she had her arms firmly around him. She sobbed and buried her face against his armour, hugging tight. “It’s me,” she said. “It’s Ciri. I’m Princess Cirilla of Cintra, and you, Geralt, are my destiny.”

At last, she’d finished the task her grandmother had set her. She hadn’t failed after all. Here he was, the real flesh- and- blood Geralt of Rivia, alive and whole. She still had a father. Nothing had been lost.

Geralt’s arms wrapped slowly around her shoulders as the meaning sunk in. This was none other than his child Surprise. He felt unsteady. He’d gone searching when the blight first took hold and Cintra had fallen in the winter, but he’d given up hope. In the subsequent days he’d been distracted in his search for Jaskier. Destiny was at work again, bringing them all together.

Yennefer looked at the two of them, standing a little uncomfortably to one side. She eyed Geralt with a careful indifference. “So this is your child Surprise?” she asked.

Geralt nodded, not meeting her eye.

Yennefer looked down at Ciri. “She’s got your vocabulary,” she joked, making light. “Or would that be owed to the bard? I recall him being colorful in that aspect; ‘pox-faced bedswerver’ sounds like something that would roll off his tarnished silver tongue.”

Geralt’s sense of urgency returned with full force, remembering what had brought them to this strange place. He pulled away and met Ciri’s eye, gripping her shoulders to ground her, bring her back to the task at hand. “Ciri,” he prompted. “Where is Jaskier?”

Ciri flinched. She looked up at Geralt and Yennefer, then turned toward the far end of the ballroom. She tugged at Geralt’s arm. “This way. He has him locked in a cage.”

“Who does?” Geralt asked. He reached up and drew his sword again as they started to run from the ballroom, following her lead. Ciri had been locked in a room, and Jaskier in a cage. That meant there was a threat somewhere nearby, and one of power. Ciri had magic—she’d cast a wall of fire at them somehow. It would take a powerful person to lock away someone with that kind of magic, and Jaskier was no slouch. At the very least, he could handle a one-on-one brawl, and he had some dagger work under his belt. Geralt had seen to that.

“A god,” Ciri replied.

“A _god?”_ Geralt scoffed. He’d stopped believing in such things long ago. “There are no gods.”

 _“I’m_ a god. And Jaskier. You are as well but you haven’t ‘come into power’ yet.”

Yennefer puffed at her side as she listened, then turned to Geralt with a look of bewilderment. “Well, that answers one question—and adds many more in their place,” she said. She regarded him a tad jealously. “A child Surprise, now a godhood. It’s all wasted on you. Now, if _I_ were a god, I would make use of the fact and _do_ something with it. You can’t even procure a regular bath when you’re sorely in need of one. Now, for instance. When was the last time you washed?”

Geralt’s thousand-yard stare was the only response she received.

Seeing that Geralt would not be coherent anytime soon, Ciri turned instead to Yennefer, who seemed quicker to the uptake. “You’re taking this suspiciously in stride,” she commented.

“I’m not taking it at all. I’ll decided whether or not I believe once I see him do something godly.” Yennefer chuckled and added, “If he were a god, I’d assume he’d have tried to smite me by now, or would have done so during the djinn incident.”

“He wasn’t in power then. It’s relatively new.”

“How relatively?”

“He had a death wish prepared for a man the moment he held the djinn’s bottle,” Geralt interjected. “I imagine he would have cursed Yennefer with something as soon as he discovered he’d had the power. I see a distinct lack of crow’s feet, however.”

Yennefer grinned. “Now that you mention it, I _have_ been having trouble with my hair lately. That seems the petty sort of curse he might throw my direction.”

The casual way in which they joked dissolved some of the stress in the atmosphere. Ciri felt that there was some hope of everything turning out fine with their arrival, a hope that was more concrete than the one she and Jaskier shared when they were making their original plans. Yennefer and Geralt had an air of competency to them. They both had the impression of power, if by different means, and being beside them felt safe. She felt like a child again; not in the way of before when she felt too meek to enact change, but as a child feels when an adult steps in to take over some overwhelming burden with ease. They would be able to help. They would fix everything. She dreadfully wanted to believe it, and so she did, just as a child believes in the heroes of their bedtime stories. With hers well-armed and running at her side, she felt she truly could.

The temple was dark when they started from the ballroom, but now it was truly impossible to see in the most shadowed corners. Ciri snapped her fingers until at last she made a spark, the effects of the sign having worn off. She ignited her hand several times until she was able to make a steady flame. It was not the doing of the sign that made it so difficult, but the lack of practice and rest, having slept poorly for a long time, always turning over with worry for her companion when she was not otherwise occupied with thoughts of her lost home.

She let the flame grow and sent a ball of fire bobbing above, acting as a torch to light the way. It was bright enough to fill the hall, but as they drew nearer to the room where Jaskier was confined, the light began to fade. It was a new trick; if asked, she wouldn’t be able to answer if the failing light was due to her weary state, lack of training, or the nearing presence of the silphium. The wall of flames had been a desperate diversion, and it followed that her power was strongest in desperate times. A great deal of her initial desperation had disappeared in the ballroom, and gladly.

She snapped her fingers until even her sparks faded, and she struggled to keep up pace with the others. Geralt and Yennefer slowed, turning back just as she stumbled against the wall to catch her breath. The adrenaline had left her, and she was exhausted.

Geralt returned to her side as she tried snapping again, without so much as a sizzle between her fingers. He placed a hand on her back and smiled kindly. “It’s alright,” he said. He made another sign with his hand and the hall was lit on either side by a scattered row of flames suspended in the air on high. “I’ll take it from here. Rest and leave it to us.”

Ciri’s protests died on her tongue and she nodded. She sighed and slumped against the wall, sitting in place. “Hurry up and get him, then let’s go home.”

“You and Jaskier may go, but Yennefer and I have something more to see to after.”

She looked up curiously. “What?” she asked. Had he not only come for her and Jaskier?

“The Continent is barren,” Yennefer answered. She knelt down at her side, speaking on her level. “We’ve come to find the reason for it. There’s a magic here that was present when the blight first came, and we’re looking for the source of it. We mean to find it and undo what’s been done so the winter can end.”

Ciri did not look at all surprised, which was the most surprising thing of all. Instead of further questions, she supplied them with answers. “That’s because of Jaskier. He’s Spring. Since he was taken, _spring_ was taken. Once we go home, the world will flourish again.”

Geralt’s eyes widened. “So, when you said you were Summer—”

“Yes. I’m Summer, Jaskier is Spring, and according to the god of this realm, you’re Winter.”

“Suits you,” Yennefer said.

Ciri glanced at her with a nod. “It’s the hair.”

“And the frigid attitude.”

“The icy glare.”

“The—”

“That’s enough,” Geralt grunted. “We’ll send the two of you back to Aretuza through the portal, then do what we can to ensure nothing like this happens again. If that means killing a god, we’ll find a way to do it. Is there anything you can tell us that would help?”

Ciri sat in thought a moment. Then, she reached for Jaskier’s bag and flipped the top, pulling the notebook from it. She searched through the pages until she found the section on Love and pointed to a list Jaskier had made.

“Here. When a god makes a deal, they’re bound to see it through at the expense of life. Love was struggling to fulfill some deal and he was bleeding around the ankles. Jaskier described some kind of shackles: a manifestation of the contract. They tighten or burn—there’s a physical reaction the longer they go without following through. Eventually it’ll kill them. They die if they go unworshiped long enough as well. He commands Wind and can rearrange the house at will.”

“If a god can bleed, there’s no need to wait for some magic contract to end things. We can kill them just like any other monster.” Geralt raised his silver sword for emphasis.

She smiled. It was time for her to reveal her _own_ research, and she felt a sense of importance as she did so. “He’s weak right now. He’s used up a lot of his magic making powerful contracts since our arrival. Everything is perfect for our escape.”

Ciri raised the notebook and pointed to the end of the hall. “That’s where he’s keeping him, through that door there. It’s unlocked. The cage had no door or lock when I looked, but you may be able to bend the bars.”

Yennefer held up a hand, circling it in the air. “I can use a portal to send him directly home. No need to bother with the bars.”

“It’s made of a metal called Dimeritium. Jaskier says it suppresses his powers.”

Yennefer dropped her hand. “Dimeritium. This may pose a problem for us. It suppresses magical power of even the stronger, more experienced mages.”

Geralt hummed.

“The … the bars are hollow, I think,” Ciri offered. “That might make them easier to break. Witchers are very strong, aren’t they? You don’t need magic if you’re strong enough to break them by hand, and the metal won’t respond to a physical approach, will it?”

Silence stretched on as they crowded together in thought. Ciri tried to think how she might melt the bars with her fire, if she only had the strength for it, reasoning that a god would be more powerful than a mage on a good day. Yennefer thought about collapsing the ceiling to break the cage, then thought the better of it when she considered a stray stone might knock Jaskier’s head in the process and kill him. Geralt thought that a blast from one of his signs might break the cage, but wondered if the magic would lose effect when it passed over the metal. He would try to break it by hand as Ciri suggested, then if it gave an inch, he might elect to try again after drinking a potion, but that also brought into question whether the metal would affect the magical aspect of potions.

“Yennefer,” Geralt said.

She looked up at him expectantly.

“Take the girl and put her somewhere safe. Best not keep her along for the fight.”

Ciri turned on him at once. “No! I want to stay and help Jaskier!” she cried.

“You’re too tired. You’ll be nothing more than unnecessary collateral. As soon as we get Jaskier out, we’ll send him as well. If he’s like you, he won’t be able to do much.”

She glared at him, pride wounded. “I’m seeing this through.”

Geralt glanced at Yennefer.

Yennefer focused and held up her hands. Oddly, her spell did not work right away, but after a few minutes, there was the sound of static and a slight crackle, then Ciri yelped. Yennefer pulled her through the portal and it closed behind them. In an instant, they were gone. Even so, Geralt knew Yennefer would be back, just as soon as she found some means of preventing Ciri from following in behind. He suspected rope or a closet and chair would be involved.

Geralt was grateful for their absence as he approached the end of the corridor. This reunion was not one he meant to have with an audience over his shoulder. It was hard enough to imagine speaking with Jaskier alone without the pressure of another pair of judging eyes upon him. He thought as much as he wedged open the door. The flames gradually died out and he cast a new sign, producing a single flare to light the room. He expected something small, and the light was not enough to reach into the inky blackness ahead. The room went deeper.

With a wave of his hand, Geralt cast his flame outward. It curled around the room, separating into many more, leaving a flame posted every few meters against the empty stone wall. The breadth of the room now exposed, he could see the sunken pit in the middle of the room with some clarity. He cast one more sign towards it and at last the cage was exposed to the light.

Geralt stepped through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more to go. Just gonna give 'em a last read-over and post. Hope you enjoy the flood of emails!  
> Note: "cock-sucking pox-faced bedswerver" was the highlight of this entire chapter for me lol
> 
> Btw, I don't know if I said this already or not, but when you download the music album for this fic, it comes with some cool graphics I made in a little booklet with the lyrics. It's all free, so have a look if you like:  
> https://penncorner.bandcamp.com/album/an-all-consuming-creature
> 
> Special shout-out to Lady_Erisai for her fantastic piano cover of The Sorrowful Spring! She sent it to me on the Geraskier discord channel and I totally cried you guys. She has a fantastic singing voice! I'm not worthy.


	25. Concerning Contracts and Curses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for fire (again) and the looming possibility of being frozen to death, mentions of collars, bodily harm, stab wounds, eye trauma, and repeated instances of choking. Assume the worst, this is the final battle.
> 
> 15967

Caged in the center of the room, a figure sat huddled, back turned to the door. A familiar head of brown hair shone in the firelight: a sight Geralt had seen so many times returning to countless campsites, twilight taverns, and rented rooms. One word and that head would turn to reveal an eager smile and bright blue eyes. He’d never seen such eyes, so lacking in fear and judgement. They were eyes that saw the beauty in everything. The years had left faint smile lines in their corners: a permanent memory of happiness etched in his skin.

He breathed the air and the warm smell alone was enough to make him want to laugh. It was nothing faded. He listened to the steady heartbeat, so very alive. One could count out the beat of a dance to that perfect rhythm. The bard wrote with his heart, and his heart was made for music, all his songs strong and steady, full of life.

Geralt took another step through the doorway, the clomp of his boot echoing into the room. Then the idle scent turned dry. The air spiked with a flash of rage. Geralt had known Jaskier’s anger. He’d smelled it before many times when people hurled insults at him as he performed, and more often when they turned their ire onto Geralt himself. But this was something far greater.

He knew the seething scent of Jaskier’s hatred, how it clung to him long after he received some word from home, a messenger catching up with them in Oxenfurt with a letter from his father. He’d smelled a hint of it when Yennefer caught his attention at the start of every early encounter, but it had faded over time to something milder. He’d almost forgotten the scent of it, but he remembered then, and it had never been so strong in all their years. Geralt nearly choked on it.

Jaskier was the first to speak.

“I thought you were going to leave me alone. What are you doing here?” he asked.

His voice was the first change Geralt noticed. He sounded like something out of a nightmare. He’d heard Jaskier sick, and he’d heard him injured. Many times he’d heard Jaskier attempt to talk the day after a concert, his voice like gravel and tacks. This was like nothing he’d heard before. He sounded like a dead thing given voice.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said. He’d waited so long to call that name. It was the way he said it upon their first meeting every spring. It was his greeting when they were gone so long between contracts and Jaskier flittered off to some friendly circle or other and Geralt found him weeks later in a nameless, backwater pub. It was the one word of relief when he found his bard curled up in the dark, hidden in the protection of a vast tree trunk when a monster stole away from the fight on a blind war path of destruction.

The gentle word skipped around the room, the low voice carried through the empty chamber.

Jaskier sighed. He leaned back against the bars, head tilted up toward the vast ceiling. “So, you’ve started that again,” he mumbled. “I knew it wouldn’t take too long.” He did not stand or turn to face this new company. There was no need. He spoke up, tone one of resigned sarcasm, pronounced with a drop of poison from a well-sharpened tongue. “Go on, say what you need. Give me your grand speeches and I’ll hear you out. I’ve promised, and I’m a man of my _word._ ”

All of Geralt’s carefully rehearsed apologies failed him. He’d planned this meeting many times, but always under freer conditions. There was no time now for grand speeches with the threat of an unknown god looming in the vicinity. But Jaskier—ever dramatic, impractical Jaskier—would have his scene. Spring wasn’t the right fit: a god of the arts, of music and theatrics would be more suitable. And Geralt felt he’d been misnamed as well. A god of folly and misfortune was more appropriate for his role. That was the thought that came when the mindless words slipped through his teeth, unthinking, and out of place in the importance of the moment.

“You’re a god,” he said.

Jaskier huffed, turning his head slightly towards him. “Is _that_ what we’re talking about? No apologies? No groveling? I expected _some_ groveling at the very least, given how you insulted me when last we spoke.” The swine comment alone demanded flowers—not that he wanted them. After what happened last time, he knew better than to offer such ideas.

“I—”

“No, no, don’t start now,” Jaskier interrupted. “We’re gods, aren’t we? So, let’s be gods.” He stood at last, arms gesticulating in the most flippant, dismissive manner as he spoke to the far wall. “Yes, let’s be proud and silent and solemn. Let’s toy with the hearts of humans and ruin a few pathetic lives for entertainment. What does it matter to us, oh- so high and mighty and immortal?”

Geralt took a step back, the cut of Jaskier’s words a hair too fine. They stung true, reopening wounds that hardly knew a scab. “Jaskier, this isn’t the time. We can discuss this later.”

“We’ll discuss it _now!”_ Jaskier snapped. The bars rang with the anger in his voice. He spun around to glare at his opponent. He was the judge, the jury, and executioner. This match was over when _he_ decided, and no sooner. “The passing days may hold no meaning for you. Yesterday’s actions may have no consequences today if enough passes in between, but I’m still human enough to bare a grudge. I’ll not be jumping when you call as if nothing has passed between us. Did you forget me so easily? Have you forgotten all that you’ve done?”

“I’d never forget,” Geralt replied. “I’m not human, but I understand.”

Jaskier gripped one of the bars. “You understand fuck all. I’d bet good money to say you were _never_ human. You don’t know what it means to be fragile and fleeting, to have your time _wasted_ for you—stolen from you—and to watch it slip away. All this time I could have spent with friends and family— _you_ took that from me.”

Jaskier let his head fall. The world was dying and he would not even be there to witness. He would have no goodbyes. Love had taken him from his home for who knew how long, and who _knew_ what had become of the people in his life? Where now were his old professors? His colleges at Oxenfurt? How many starry-eyed students had fallen starving on the side of the road? How fared his dear mother, his friends and cousins?

“We mourn something every single day, knowing nothing lasts. The gift of time is lost on you. What else did you lose along the way when you became this …” Jaskier glanced upward and waved his hand.

“Monster?” Geralt supplied with a grim smile. He would rather say it himself than hear the word fall from Jaskier’s lips. It was a word that didn’t belong to him. Even as hatred rolled off of him in waves, he doubted Jaskier _could_ say it himself. He wanted to believe that doubt.

Geralt recalled the marketplace after yellow disappeared. He’d had a real taste of humanity that day. How comfortable it would be to return to those hours again, living as just another man among the forgettable, passing faces: to laugh and sing and flirt and play as others took for granted. From the very beginning, Jaskier had done it all. He did not need to look past the yellow eyes to find the humanity beneath. And Geralt would trade all the easy camaraderie and kinship of the townspeople to live in those moments in the quiet of their camp once more, the bad blood forgotten. He would let himself be stoned from the city gate to the far bridge if Jaskier would be but waiting for him on the other side, not as a knight to fend off the coming dragon, but as the quiet friend of the hermit, ready to take his hand and speak kindly.

“You lean into it so very well,” Jaskier muttered. “You take no responsibility for the lives you oversee. You don’t even take responsibility for _yourself.”_

Jaskier could hear the excuses already. It was Psyche’s one mistake, influenced by envious relatives that ruined everything, not Love’s lack of faith. It was Hades’ happiness, not Love’s own misery that brought him so low. And now it was collective belief—all the world was to blame for turning him into the beast he’d become. But no, Love was not responsible; he had no hand in making himself. He was a helpless victim of fate. His only crime was in loving too much.

“You’re so above it all, so separate and other that petty, mortal consequences don’t matter to you.” Jaskier continued. “You can rain destruction and ruin on everything you touch because nothing touches you.”

Geralt swallowed the dry lump in his throat. He took a step forward. “You did,” he said. As he spoke, he took one careful step after another. “I should never have tried to lay the blame with you. You were … convenient. My mind—my heart was clouded with anger and resentment,” he said, trying to find the words he needed. He didn’t have Jaskier’s gift. Even so, he would stumble blindly through, sentence by sentence, and land on the other side wherever they took him. He was afraid of the helplessness of portals; he was likewise afraid of the helplessness of being known.

“I’d just lost what I thought was my one chance of love, of having anyone near me, and it was my own fault.” But it hadn’t been love. Love did not grow in a handful of hours stolen across the years. It was tended, like a garden, and his had overrun with weeds. Geralt smoothed a hand over his hair and a few dandelion seeds fell, drifting through the air. He’d weeded his garden, clawed it free of the one stubborn thing he ought to have kept and watered so diligently. A flower is only a weed when it was unwanted, and he’d fought so long not to want this dandelion, so _fragile_ and _fleeting._ He knew what it meant to be human all too well, and he’d been afraid to love one.

Jaskier knelt on the steps of the pit, his hands cupping his right knee. “It doesn’t make a difference. Whatever excuse you give or apology you make, nothing will change. Stop talking like you care—and furthermore, use your own damn voice. I’m too tired for this.”

Geralt stood one short stride from the cage. He looked down at Jaskier, and he truly did look a wretched sight. That moment, he took the blame. If he hadn’t chased Jaskier off, he wouldn’t have been alone, vulnerable to abduction. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I cast you away, and I treated you like the dirt under my heel. I should have been a better friend to you.” He could say that now. It was the very least he owed Jaskier, even if he’d lost that friendship long ago. He’d said almost nothing, and already he’d run out of words. He was borrowing from his song. It was silly, and the words felt wrong in this place, but they were all he had left.

He leaned, his forehead lowered against the cool metal of the cage. He winced, feeling it burn his skin slightly upon contact. The Dimeritium had its effect on all magical beings, witchers included. His flames flickered, fading under the metal’s influence, but he stayed. Jaskier had to know his sincerity. To make him understand was worth the temporary sting. In a whisper, he laid his heart bare.

“Forgive me, dear Jaskier.”

It happened in an instant. Before he even felt the shift of Jaskier leaping to his feet, he’d smelled the barb of fury in the air. He’d heard Jaskier’s heart pump faster, heard the slide of metal against leather. The glint of it flashed as he lurched backward, the renewed light of his flames bouncing off the side of the silver dagger. Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s wrist and stopped it just as the knife kissed his neck.

“Don’t you dare quote him!” Jaskier bellowed. “I told you before! Stop using his voice, stop singing his songs! I’ll kill you for it! I’ll kill you for what you did to him!” The tears fell, hot and angry down his cheeks. A single drop of blood rolled down Geralt’s neck likewise.

Geralt’s eyes were wide with shock. He could easily understand Jaskier hating him, but killing him was another thing altogether. He could never have imagined in all his years that Jaskier hated him enough to want him dead, but his aim was true. Jaskier was quick, and if Geralt had been human, he’d likely be dead where he stood. He had not even heard Jaskier speak.

Once, long ago, they’d wound up in the same position under friendlier circumstances. Geralt had taken a cheap dagger from some bandits bold enough to try their luck against a witcher—a fatal move, that. It was the acquisition of the dagger that had prompted Geralt to begin lessons with Jaskier. He’d been taken during the skirmish and that very dagger pressed against his throat. If not for that, Geralt might have let the bandits live.

Over the course of several weeks he’d taught Jaskier how to escape from such a deadly hold, drilling him until he could do it nigh instinctively. He’d jumped him in the night, or while walking through the woods, as he went in and out of their room, the pub, or simply wandering comfortably in the presumed safety of the streets in town. And he’d taught Jaskier how to use the dagger as well. They fought in the early morning sun, circling the firelight in the evening, until at last Jaskier had him pinned. He’d taken to dagger work surprisingly well, and Geralt wondered if Jaskier had been holding out on some secret part of his past: perhaps life as an assassin in the high courts. It was a joke, really, but Jaskier’s past was mysterious enough for him to indulge in such ideas.

“I thought I trained you better than this,” Geralt said. He chuckled once. “Keep your movements small. A big movement and your opponent will see it coming; you gave me time to dodge. Would’ve been better if you’d killed me without my having to stick around and know you want me dead. I can live with everyone else wanting me dead, but not you.”

Jaskier spat and tried to break free from his grip. “Who the fuck else wants you dead?” he asked, chest heaving as his breath came, hurried and anxious. Love had him trapped. He could pry the dagger from him with a simple twist of the hand. His last tether to Geralt and the earth would be gone, and here he’d stay, forever stuck in the immortal realm.

“I’m a fucking _witcher_ , Jaskier. It’d be easier to list who _doesn’t_.”

Jaskier blinked. He looked Love in the eye, searching for answers before the questions could even form. This close, pressed against the bars, Jaskier could smell him. He could smell the foul stench of sweat and mud on him; of old leather, of strange and powerful herbs without enough pine to drown out their sharp tang; and there was the ever-present cling of an unwashed, over-worked, spoiled rotten, sweets-scarfing, loyal, loving, chestnut brown _horse_. The smells of home. Not a whiff of hyacinth.

And staring back at him were two grey eyes, completely lacking in color.

Jaskier felt the warmth of the medallion against his skin grow hotter. The hand on his wrist had not moved the blade away, nor had it made any attempt to steal the weapon from him. He could see the words engraved upon it winking back at him:

_Whence you roam_

_I bring you home._

He saw the shiver of the witcher medallion against the armour-plated chest before him, reacting to the blessing welded into the blade of his dagger, and to the present danger of it against his neck. He felt the grip weakening as the seconds passed, leaking like sand from the neck of a narrow hourglass. The hand merely held him as they stood motionless.

“Geralt? Is that … is that _you?”_

Geralt tilted his head and marveled at his incredibly poor attempt at backtracking. What a fucking ploy. If Jaskier wanted to kill him, he could at least do the decent thing and try again without trying to distract him with such a weak act. “Who the fuck else would I be?”

“Say it,” Jaskier insisted, pushing the knife a fraction harder against the broken skin. “Say that you’re the same man I travelled with all those years. Prove to me you’re the true, one and only, no mistaking, Geralt of Rivia. Say it now or I swear—I _swear_ I’ll kill you before your next breath!”

The tears which had moments before been startled from falling gathered anew and rolled down his cheeks. They were something more desperate now. Jaskier smelled of hope and confusion and too much all at once for Geralt to even attempt to unmask. He was moments from hysteria, and the dagger was too close.

“I am Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf—as _you_ named me. I come from the School of the Wolf in the mountains of Kaedwen.”

“What else?” Jaskier asked. The knife remained, unmoving as he suppressed a sob. A god couldn’t lie. Calling himself a witcher would be a lie. Calling himself _Geralt_ would be a lie. But it could be another creature, couldn’t it? Love had summoned mermaids to steal Jaskier’s boots; he was capable of bringing in others to do the things he could not. Could a doppler lie? Was this some glamour? He bit his tongue to test for a dream. The pain was real, he was awake, and he was not shocked from any spell. All remained. And the silver dagger did not burn as it would in the presence of an evil magic. It lay cold against its target. Whatever stood before him was no monster.

Geralt swallowed, the dagger scratching against his skin. “I wanted to call myself Geralt Roger Eryk du Haute-Bellegarde, but Vesemir said it was too pretentious for the Path. Only you and he know that. I’m not Rivian; the accent was something I adopted. Also pretentious.”

Jaskier laughed and his hand shook. All of him was shaking. He pressed the knife again to the spot, but there was no force. “Tell me a secret,” he said. But he knew. He swore he knew.

“You once rubbed chamomile on my ‘ _lovely_ bottom’ when my hands had to be wrapped in bandages. I’d come off a hard fight with a wraith, nearly on the losing end,” Geralt said. He could see the change in Jaskier’s eyes. The smell of hatred was gone, the rest fading into something sweeter. Jaskier’s heart was still beating like mad in his chest, but he knew that Jaskier would not plunge the knife into his neck. He wondered at it. Everything Jaskier said was surely meant for him, yet Jaskier was testing him, as if he did not trust that Geralt was himself. That made twice today. Who else would such speeches be meant for?

“I went fishing for a djinn, looking for a peaceful night’s sleep,” Geralt continued, watching Jaskier’s hand fall lower and lower with every word. “I got my ass handed to me by the elves in Posada, with you at my side. Your song is a crock of shit that you made up to protect the survivors of the humans’ slaughter.”

Jaskier laughed again. The tears dropped from under his chin and he covered his mouth, the hilt of the dagger pressed to his lips. “Tell me another,” he said.

Geralt looked at him, his blue eyes rimmed so red, yet so full of life, just as he remembered. His heart felt lighter. “I put a blessing on a silver dagger. I meant to give it to a friend of mine for protection—the idiot’s always getting into trouble—but it disappeared one day.” He tilted his chin toward the dagger in Jaskier’s hand. Though half the inscription was obscured by his hand, he knew it for what it was. “Is that the one I gave you?”

“You mean the one I nicked from your bag when you weren’t looking?” Jaskier asked. He laughed and wiped at his eyes. “Yes, that’s it.”

“Stealing a Witcher’s blade. Do you know what it would really mean to be given one?”

“Something in the line of a proposal?” Jaskier joked.

Geralt only smiled.

Jaskier held the knife between them and twiddled it in the air playfully, borrowing confidence in the midst of his instability. “Whatever anything means, I stole this knife. You meant to give me a present and I still want one. You’ll have to gift me another dagger in the future.”

“I let you steal it,” Geralt countered. “That’s as good as giving it. Better, even.”

“I know.”

They smiled at one another through the bars, each seeing the other clearly for the first time in so long. Then, Jaskier held the knife away. He turned it to stroke the flat of the blade, fingers tracing the letters known by heart.

“You put a blessing on it,” he whispered. “This was my pomegranate, my protection, bringing me back to you wherever I might travel.”

“What’s a pomegranate?” Geralt asked as gently.

Jaskier shook his head with another small smile. “Never you mind. Later,” he promised. Then, he threw his arms forward and wrapped them around Geralt’s shoulders, tugging him as close as was permissible, both of them strained against the bars. “It _is_ you! Oh, Geralt, I’ve never been happier to smell the stench of horsehide! I’ll breathe it in every day for the rest of my life with not a word of complaint. Merciful gods above and about—I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you!”

He’d be complaining about it in less than a month, as sure as the sun rose in the east. But Geralt looked forward to it. “The same to you,” he breathed, arms circling around Jaskier’s back. For all his theatrics, he knew Jaskier believed in no gods. How ironic to have become one. “Are you truly glad to see me?” he asked, still unsure even as he allowed himself this embrace. “Everything you said—after what happened on the mountain, I never thought …”

Jaskier sighed: a happy sound as he buried his nose against Geralt’s neck. When he spoke, his lips tickled his skin. “Under better circumstances, I’d be more than happy to play at snubbing you for _days_ if you like, and as soon as we’re out of here I expect the most exhaustive apologies, but now is not the _time_ , Geralt. As you said: we can discuss it later.”

Geralt was reluctant to pull away, but he felt it was his place to make the first move. One of them had to be reasonable, and he was more in practice. He did, however, linger long enough to turn his head and bury his nose in Jaskier’s hair, breathing him in at last. It was easier to ignore the still-clinging notes of sourness in the air with the happiness emanating from him. This was right, he thought. “Come on. Let me take you home,” he said.

“Can you break these bars?” Jaskier asked. He stepped back, giving Geralt room to try.

Geralt gripped two bars tightly in hand and began pulling them apart. The metal creaked and groaned, but it scarcely moved, and there was an alarming blue glow the more force he applied. He tried bracing himself on one side and focusing his attention on only one bar. He grunted with the effort and the bar gave ever- so slightly before he had to stop, clutching at his bicep as a muscle jumped. He panted and took a moment to rest.

“I’ll try it again. I brought potions.”

“Geralt, I just saw some very disturbing veins poking out from under your collar. You can’t look me in the eyes and tell me this stuff isn’t affecting you. I saw the bars glow _blue_.”

“It’s nothing,” Geralt said, waving him off. “Just one of the effects of Dimeritium.”

Jaskier thumped the back of his head. “Don’t tell me it’s nothing. I know it has something to do suppressing magic. If it’s affecting you this much right now, I don’t want to see how it looks when you chug one of those potions of yours! Here, just move over.”

Geralt scoffed, but stepped aside. “You’ve been trapped here _how_ long? I know you wouldn’t just sit around and wait for someone to break you out; if you couldn’t do it before, what makes you think you can bend the bars this time?”

“Motivation!” Jaskier put away his knife, rolled back his sleeves, and tossed his cloak over his shoulders before taking firm hold of one of the bars. He pulled and pushed until he was wheezing, then he fell to kicking them again in frustration.

“Don’t break your toes,” Geralt chided, trying his best not to smile too much.

Jaskier glared at him. Then, he sighed and leaned against the metal. “I suppose we could try one of your signs next, see if one of them will work. Maybe a blast of Aard will knock one side of the cage in.”

“If not, we’ll see if Yennefer can do something about it. Maybe she can summon a blacksmith’s file for us, if not a portal.”

 _“Yennefer’s_ here?” Jaskier balked.

Before Jaskier had a moment to get properly angry, Geralt explained. “I needed her help to find you. I looked all over the Continent, but you left no trace behind. None but this.”

He reached under his armour, taking the handkerchief from his pocket. There were no seeds left, but he’d kept the dried remains of the dandelion stalk. “I found a field of dandelions, all of them living, resistant to the blight. I dug up a patch of them and carried it in your bag. I wanted to bring a living sample to her to analyze, see if they would lead me to you. This one … it bore your scent.”

 _“You_ put the dandelions in my bag?” It was then Jaskier registered the presence of the bag in question, currently strapped over Geralt’s shoulder. “You _have_ it. But last I saw—” He cut himself off and slammed up against the bars, eyes wide as he gesticulated frantically. “Geralt! Have you seen a young girl, yea high, ashen hair and green eyes, answers to the name Ciri? She had the bag before. Where is she, is she alright?”

“It’s fine,” Geralt assured him. “Yennefer took her through a portal. She’s safe now.”

Jaskier took a deep breath, then let his head collapse against Geralt’s chest. “Merciful Melitele,” he whispered.

Geralt patted his back comfortingly. “Anything else you want to worry about before we get you out?”

“Hm. How’s Roach?”

“Upset since we’ve run out of peppermints, but she’ll live.”

Jaskier straightened out again and adjusted himself, patting down his hair and tucking his shirt in. He’d been rather a bit of a mess for some time. Finally able to worry about himself, he made to look presentable. “You might’ve done the gentlemanly thing and offered me my handkerchief when I was crying, you know. Would’ve spared my sleeve the trouble of cleaning up the mess. I’ve been living like a barbarian without it.”

“I was under the assumption that it was your trade for my dagger,” Geralt replied.

“Then you might’ve let me _borrow_ ‘your’ handkerchief.”

“But where would I put my dandelion?”

Jaskier eyed the brownish stalk curiously. “Speaking of. Do you mind?” He held out a hand to take it, waiting for Geralt’s nod before proceeding. He brought it close. It was odd, but he was sure—yes, he knew it as he knew the face of a friend. It was the self-same dandelion he’d wished upon so long ago in the stolen field of flowers. He remembered asking it to find Geralt, and watched the seeds and stalk be carried off with the wind. With the fresh _spring_ Wind, he realized.

“My Wind brought you here.”

“Your wind?”

“Zephyr. The spring Wind, Zephyrus. My dandelion wish worked together with it to bring you here. Ye gods, do you think I’ve made dandelion wishes _real?_ I should hurry and write some rules for that or else well-meaning people might wish for some disastrous things.”

He looked up and caught a glance of Geralt’s exasperated expression.

“Right. Something to think about _later._ ” He raised the dandelion in what he hoped was a noble, godly way, and spoke to it in his most theatrical voice. “Well then. Let’s see what the hardiest of Spring’s little foot soldiers can accomplish. If you can demolish a garden, you can demolish a cage. Grow, my friend, and set your master free!”

He concentrated on it with all his might, willing it to rise, but it only gave a dejected wiggle before promptly going still. It seemed the poor thing was too close to death, having held out just until the completion of its task. “Never fear,” Jaskier said, giving its stem a grateful pat. “Rest, little one. We’ll find some other way out of here, I’m sure.”

Geralt regarded the dandelion kindly then folded it back in the handkerchief and tucked it away. It would live out a new purpose as a reminder when this adventure came to its close. “What did you mean to do with it?” he asked.

“Make it grow and smash the cage. My godly powers are great, but unfortunately limited. For now. I’m sure after a few months of practice I’ll be more in tune with how they work; until then, I’ll have to settle for plant-related things. At least I know they still work since the poor thing gave it an effort when I tried. That means my theory was correct about the threefold measures.” He was mumbling to himself now, foot tapping and arms crossed over his chest. “Maybe I can have you fetch a tree branch or something for me.”

There were plenty of trees within easy reach. The open-air walkways and their gardens had at least one apiece and it would be a simple matter to lean over the low walls and their arches to break off a twig. Geralt could be out and back in under a minute.

Jaskier glanced up at him to say as much, then stopped. He lit up with a brilliant smile and reached forward, struggling to wrap his hand around Geralt’s neck and bring him in. “Geralt, come here, I need you!” he said.

Geralt stiffened and refused to move. “Here? But what about—”

“Would you just lean in! I can’t reach where I need.”

Geralt’s eyes flickered down to Jaskier’s lips as he stepped forward. It was absurd, given the time, place, and situation, but Jaskier had one hand fisted in his shirt and was eagerly trying to pull him closer. Even with all things considered, Geralt wasn’t exactly averse to the idea. His heart gave a little leap at the thought, in fact. He tilted his head slightly as Jaskier craned forward.

“Aha!” Jaskier cheered triumphantly as he plucked a dandelion seed from Geralt’s hair. “I’ve got it! This is my ticket out!”

Geralt stood stupefied a moment after, then recovered and pulled away a tad quickly. _Right._ That had been … an unfortunate misunderstanding. _After all,_ he thought, he hadn’t apologized yet for the mountain. Before he could consider telling Jaskier all the rest, that much was necessary. Jaskier didn’t know, and Jaskier hadn’t given any indication that he might want—

Jaskier _kissed_ the seed, he was so elated!

And Geralt sighed.

With a self-confident grin, Jaskier turned to Geralt. “Observe, my dear witcher. You’re about to witness the power of a god at work. With this seed, I will return Spring to the world below—by _freeing_ myself and getting the fuck back _down_ there!” He raised the seed with a flourish, then paused. He looked quizzically at Geralt. “Actually, now that we’re on the subject, how _did_ you know I was a god? You were the one who brought it up.”

“The girl told me. Ciri. I’m still processing.”

Jaskier smiled. “Prepare to process a lot more.” He waved his hand, shooing Geralt away.   
“Three paces, please; don’t want to be too close when I start; you should have seen the rose bushes I made when I was first practicing. If all works, this room is about to get _very_ crowded.”

Geralt chuckled and made a show of stepping back to give him room. He crossed his arms, head cocked to one side, and waited. 

Jaskier let the seed fall. As it drifted, he closed his eyes. The dandelion seed floated silently, drifting slowly down, down to the waiting floor below. It was silent as Jaskier stood in thought, head downcast, and neither of them said a word. Then, when the seed was nearly to the bottom, he spoke, and a light breeze carried the seed upward, circling round him as if both seed and breeze were listening intently. There came an extra echo in the room where there had not been before, as if summoned from the power of his refrain.

_“Dandelion wish be strong; grow proud, you wondrous weed._

_Free me from my prison, my dear dandelion seed._

_With stalk of green and roots of white, and head of golden yellow_

_Break the cage and free the lark—return him, singing mellow!”_

Geralt stared at him in awe. It was his song. At least, there was a trace of it in the end. The rhyme of ‘yellow’ and ‘mellow’ … the last line was too similar to discount. How would Jaskier have ever heard it? And he realized, however indirectly, Jaskier would have known. If he’d heard the song, he _must_ know. ‘ _I’m aching for lost love fine.’_ There was no mistaking his meaning.

Jaskier had known and he hadn’t pushed him away. He hadn’t spoken of it. He’d been glad to _see_ him, and he had said as much. Geralt’s mind began to chase itself in circles as the pieces fell into place. _Snubbing for days_ —Jaskier would have to be _around_ him for days. He meant to _come with him._ Which meant that he’d already forgiven him. His comment about the knife, the handkerchief—it couldn’t be meaningless banter. Geralt reached forward to ask Jaskier for his answer, overwhelmed with the sudden, crushing, unbearable need to know. He felt the world spinning, as if it would give out from under him he was so dizzy with hope.

With a great _crack_ the ground moved beneath his feet and he fell stumbling against the cage as a thick root tore up the tiled floor. Jaskier caught his arm and chuckled, eyes shining. His little seed had planted itself in the smallest, most imperceptible crack in the tile and grew without soil, without sun or water, just as its kind was meant to grow: in the most stubborn and impractical places, incorrigible and defiant as the most willful child. Just like Jaskier. They both made their home where they pleased, paying no nevermind to anyone. They asked neither leave nor pardon, but made all lands theirs, free to roam and claim as they liked.

From the little seed had come the most monstrous blossom. It was positively _massive!_ Jaskier threw his head back and laughed with a giddy surprise as it grew upwards and collided with him. He sat himself upon the soft, pollen-dusted head, as at home as any faery in a field. Geralt clung to the bars of the cage as its roots continued to rip at the ground and wave underneath him. A huge leaf uncurled over his foot. Very soon, the bars began to creak and groan. The wind stirred again to ruffle Jaskier’s hair. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Already, he looked brighter, healthier, his complexion turning rosy with joy and fresh air brought in by the gentle breeze. By his own free Wind.

The first bar to snap was the very one in Geralt’s hand.

He fell backwards with a cry, his feet tangling in the sprawling system of thick roots. One caught him and braced his back that he might not fall. It was thick as a young tree. He held to it as more wrapped around the cage. The roots tangled and curled around the bars, pushing and tugging until it came loose piece by piece, all the while with Jaskier perched on the soft cushion of the flower, a proud smile on his face.

When at last the front wall of the cage was nothing more than a gaping hole, the roots settled. The head of the dandelion dipped forward, out of the cage, and set Jaskier down on his feet in a bare patch cleared especially for him among the chaotic growth, careful that he might not trip. He stood before Geralt, smeared with yellow pollen, a free man. For his first free act, he walked the three paces that separated them and wrapped his arms around Geralt, resting his head on his shoulder. He held tight, as though clinging to life itself.

“Take me home,” he said.

And Geralt smiled. He let the moment last awhile longer, cradling the back of Jaskier’s head and stroking his hair gently. Under no other circumstances would he have dreamt of doing so, but this was one moment stolen from time, free of any audience or stoic obligation.

“You made it rhyme. Your … spell. Whatever that was just now.”

Jaskier hummed contentedly as Geralt’s thumb stroked the back of his neck. “I think ‘spell’ is a good word for it,” he mumbled, just barely cognizant. “People believe in spells more if they rhyme. If my power is based on collective belief, I’ll take no chances.”

“It was a good rhyme,” Geralt replied, working towards his point cautiously. He was about to speak more on the subject when he felt the crackle of Chaos in the air again. Yennefer had made another portal in the hall, and there would be time for such talk later. The most important thing at present was to get Jaskier away safely before the master of the house could rear his ugly head.

“It’s time,” he whispered. “Let’s get moving.”

Jaskier pulled away, but Geralt’s hand trailed to his arm. It remained there, towing him along into the hall. Geralt wanted him close, but was not yet brave enough to take his hand.

He stopped abruptly at the sight before him. Yennefer was approaching just as he’d expected, but the young girl was at her side, looking quite a bit pleased with herself. She beamed at the sight of Jaskier and came running forward.

“Ciri!” Jaskier cried. He broke away from Geralt and went dashing down to meet her, but came to a sudden, staggering halt mere steps before. He pointed an accusing finger at her, squinting skeptically. His tone was one of warning. _“Song?”_ he prompted.

Ciri grinned an placed a hand to her chest. _“Greed,”_ she replied confidently. She gestured toward Geralt, flipping her palm upward. _“Fillingless pie.”_

“Clever girl,” he praised, and he swept her up in his arms the next instant. He gave her an affectionate squeeze and whirled them around in a circle, her legs kicking with delight in the open air as she clung to his neck. He pressed an exaggerated kiss to her cheek before setting her down once more to address the woman whose heels were currently clicking closer.

Jaskier sulked at her advance, obviously less than thrilled. “And I’m assuming …?”

Yennefer smiled. “Hello, Crow’s Feet,” she said.

“Hello, split en-n-n …” Jaskier trailed. She looked at him with a light toss of her perfect hair, challenging him to finish the thought. “…wah—witchy …” he fumbled. He thinned his lips in a straight line of defeat. She always managed to leave him tongue-tied. “… Old-Jokes-Teller,” he concluded with painful resignation.

She chuckled and patted his cheek. “Clever boy.”

“What is the girl doing here?” Geralt asked. “I told you to keep her safe.”

Yennefer turned to him and her eyes glanced to the ceiling before meeting his. “She’s very persuasive. She said she had to catch a wind or something but wouldn’t tell me what that meant unless I let her come back. Apparently it’s important if we mean to get out of here alive.”

“I have to catch _the_ Wind,” Ciri corrected. “ _He_ uses it to get around; whenever he leaves the realm, he rides on the back of the Wind. We need to trap it or else he’ll just follow us when we leave. Right now, the Wind is the most powerful tool at his disposal.”

As if to confirm, two Winds blew from either end of the hall, coming to meet in the middle. One was warm and smelled of the sea, while the other was cool and smelled of morning dew. Zephyrus and Notus came together in a happy reunion, dancing up and down the hall together, catching the edges of billowing clothes and an abundance of long, flowing hair, before they settled down to swirl patiently about Ciri and Jaskier, no more than a light ruffle.

Yennefer hummed, mildly impressed by their display. “What kind of a god are we dealing with?” she asked. “Another season like the two of you? If we’re going to take him on, we’ll need to know what kind of power he has at his disposal. I’d hate to enter into a fight only to find out my opponent can summon icicles at will to stab me.”

“Again,” Ciri said, _“Geralt_ is Winter. _He’s_ something else. I don’t really know what kind of weapons he would have, now that I think about it.” Most of her research had been about the Winds. Her knowledge pertaining to other aspects of the realm was limited outside of the topic.

Jaskier chimed in helpfully with, “He has a bow and arrows, but I’m not sure if they can do any harm apart from emotional. Still, best not to find out.”

“So who or what is _‘he’_ the god of?” Geralt asked.

“Love,” Jaskier answered.

Ciri’s head snapped back to look at him, eyes wide with incredulity. Her hands fisted in her cloak. A powerful dread chilled the air between them as she stared, mouth agape.

Jaskier felt the first trembling of cold Wind snake its way through from the far end of the hall and he grabbed her shoulders, pulling her close. _“Oh,_ cock of a rabid _leper,”_ he whispered.

“Castrated cock of a _eunuch,”_ Ciri echoed. Then, looking up at Jaskier, her hands flew to her mouth. For just a minute, she was distracted: more afraid of Jaskier’s judgement than the approaching danger. Something in the way of soap in the mouth came to mind, and that prospect was less appetizing and more certain than the very real, yet unbelievable threat of a more divine punishment that awaited at Love’s hand.

Jaskier patted her shoulder. “I’ll give you that one for free,” he said, pulling her protectively closer. He lifted his leg, slipping the knife from it. He’d made a vow to Love, and he would see it through. The difference now was merely motive. He would not allow anyone to bring harm to his family—not even a god.

Love was not best pleased when the Winds fell. He stood, just a few meters away in the middle of the hall. His pale red eyes narrowed as they levelled his unwelcomed guests. He wore again his red robe and looked quite godly. Godly and incensed.

Love was not one to mince words: rather, he scrapped them with the edge of the knife until they made a fine paste, and this he applied to speeches liberally in his lofty, pretentious way. “I hate it,” he muttered, “how close you are even now. You know and remember nothing, yet you always find each other. _Always_ , Winter is _just_ behind Spring. He clears the way, softens the ground and makes it new for him to tread.”

He sighed, rubbing his temple as though he had a headache. “Of _course_ you would find him, but it was _I_ who he was meant for: he has sung it himself in many poems in the early years. You were not bonded in this life; you have no claim on him. I will not lose _my_ Spring to another beast of death, _witcher.”_

Geralt drew both silver and steel as he moved to stand between Jaskier, Ciri, and his doppler. Now he understood their tests, and he tasted acrid bile in the back of his throat. “Another step forward and I’ll kill you,” he warned.

Love’s eyes narrowed further at the gesture. Then, he tilted his head back, inquisitive, and appraised him. “Hm. I wear you better.”

He then considered the other encroacher standing at Geralt’s side and cocked a brow with interest at Yennefer. “If it isn’t Autumn,” he said. “I did wonder what had become of you, but then I didn’t go looking—you were of no importance to me. I see you’ve straightened that crooked back of yours, however did you manage that?”

Ciri and Jaskier glanced at her in astonishment. Well! There was the last of their set, it would seem. And somehow, they were not as surprised as they ought to be. Ciri found the revelation to be nothing more than a fitting detail from one of Jaskier’s stories come true. Meanwhile, Jaskier thought it was exactly the kind of thing destiny would throw in his path just to annoy him. He’d always felt that destiny had a cruel and ironic sense of humour at times: a sentiment the four of them shared in measure.

Love was still talking, eyeing Yennefer as one might observe a slug under a glass. “Every Autumn has always had their withered features; it comes with the task and title, just as a hunched back comes with old age and the weight of a hundred harvests. It was a noble feature in its way. Such a pretty face doesn’t suit you.”

Yennefer bristled. “Neither does yours,” she spat. “It turns my stomach to look at you. The way you carry yourself is disturbingly wrong.”

“The way he talks too,” Jaskier added. Very un-Geralt.

“Show us your true face and let’s compare, shall we? Or better yet, show me what kind of power you have, and I’ll show you the extent of _mine,”_ she growled. She couldn’t care less about being pretty. She valued something greater: ambition, power, and ability. “If I’m Autumn, that makes me a god. The gods of seasons must be essential, especially one so fruitful as that of harvest time. I’d wager I’m stronger than you.”

Love turned his head dismissively, paying her no mind. “You may go. I have no need of you, and no quarrel,” he said. “Be on your way.”

“I might have taken that offer only a few minutes ago, but now it seems I have a quarrel with _you._ I am not one to be ignored so easily as that.” Yennefer stood her ground, arms raised for the fight. This was now more than a simple task for the sake of humanity. Love had come for her pride.

Geralt glared at Love, equally offended on her behalf. “Neither of us is leaving until we’ve finished with you.”

“You’ve only just entered into my domain; you have no command over death, nor any other of Winter’s claims. You’ve hardly _begun_ to come into power since setting foot in the immortal realm. It would take months to even start, and you cannot possibly hope to stall for that long. What makes you think you’re so capable of killing me?”

“The conviction that a cruel love should die,” Geralt answered.

Love scoffed. “Yet you held onto yours. Do you know what your love caused him?” Love looked at last to Jaskier. “Do you know the depth of the suffering you’ve enacted?”

“Hey,” Jaskier interjected. He pushed Ciri back behind him and stalked forward, striding with purpose between Yennefer and Geralt, his dagger and finger both pointed at Love as if he were a misbehaving dog. “Berating, scolding, lecturing, and otherwise chastising Geralt about _anything_ is strictly _my_ privilege, but _especially_ on _this_ topic! If there’s going to be any reprimanding, I’ll be the one to do it.

“Furthermore,” he continued, “I’ll not stand for another word against the witch. There’s only room for _two_ in this spitting match, and I’m partnered with her for the long run. Until the day I get my apology, I’ll be the only one lobbing insults her direction—and they mean something very different with my intentions. I was in line first, and I’ll have it out with her before you, so shut your purple-prose- prattling pie-hole before I shut it _my_ way!”

“‘Pie-hole?’” Ciri mocked.

Jaskier admonished her with a simple look. “If you’re going to repeat everything I say, I’ve got to start watching my mouth, haven’t I? One more oath from you today and we’re getting a bar of soap first thing out so you can scrub that tongue of yours clean, do you hear me?”

Ciri balked and covered her mouth, hiding behind Geralt’s legs.

Jaskier nodded approvingly. He turned back to Love, swishing the tip of his blade in the air with a careless, confident manner. “Now that that’s settled, I— _hrmph!”_

Geralt had pulled Jaskier back by the scruff of his collar. “Don’t antagonize him,” he said.

“But, Geralt! I was only—”

“Stop talking and get back!” he shouted. He could feel the room grow colder, and there was an ominous stirring in the air. He lifted his swords with renewed focus. From the far end of the hall came a low whistle and he could see something creeping round the corner. As he watched, he saw it was frost curling in patterns across the floor and walls. It cracked and crackled as it came closer and closer, until it crept around Love’s bare heels. The place had gone cold and his breath puffed out over his lips in a vaporous cloud. This was the doing of the bitter north Wind.

Jaskier leapt into action just as Ciri announced the threat’s arrival. He cut the strap of the bag free from Geralt’s shoulder and flipped the top wide. He held it open and shook it, staring up at the empty air as if he might catch sight of the invisible Wind if he tried hard enough.

“Power of belief Jaskier,” he grunted to himself. “Remember Odysseus and his own bag. The Wind is blowing into this bag; just close it and believe you’ve caught it all.” He clenched his teeth and shook the bag as the Wind picked up even harder. “Come on, Jaskier! You’re still human. You still have power over your gods yet—come on!”

Ciri put her hands over the lip of the bag as well. “Come, Boreas! Come, Eurus! He is _not_ your master and he has no claim on you!”

The frost crept ever nearer, forcing Geralt back. He felt the very edge of it touch his boot, and it had nearly stuck in place. He retreated, then cast a sign, spreading a line of flames between them and the advancing ice. Yennefer likewise coated the walls and ceiling, fighting against a vengeful blast from the Wind. It spiraled, attempting to quell the flames.

“If this was your plan to catch the Wind, it isn’t working!” Yennefer cried.

Ciri whistled against the roaring gale and Jaskier followed in her example. A hot tendril of air shot over them like an arrow and pierced the cold. As they struggled to maintain their grip, Ciri called to Yennefer.

“You’ve got to order it in!” she said. “Call your Wind by name: Eurus!”

Jaskier instructed Geralt just the same. “Yours is Boreas! It will listen to you if you command it! Just have a bit of faith!”

As their flames smothered under the battling Winds, Love struggled forward. Geralt watched him with apprehension. He snarled, then turned to look over his shoulder. The bag whipped uncontrollably, looking so ordinary and useless. It was impossible that it could ever hold something like the Wind. His eyes caught Jaskier’s, but he found no doubt within.

“For fuck’s sake—get in then!” he bellowed. “Boreas!”

The frost converged on one point and drew a line on the floor as the Wind rushed forward. Ciri shrieked and Jaskier yelped as it blew over their hands, covering the bag with ice as it went.

“Eurus! Bag!” Yennefer commanded.

It followed suit, knocking both of them back as it collided with the bottom of the bag. Jaskier flipped and strapped the top with frozen fingers and Ciri clapped her hands together, making a blaze in her palm. She smothered it as quickly and covered Jaskier’s hands. They dripped water in a matter of seconds. The pair sighed with relief.

Yennefer ran a hand through her hair and one came loose. She mumbled something neither of them could hear and the hair glowed, pinched between her fingers. It grew longer as she released it, and the strand shot forward towards the bag. It pierced the fabric and stitched up the flap all the way around before disappearing, leaving the bag and its contents perfectly still. The strap, Ciri found, was mended, and she pulled it over her head.

“That ought to hold them if he tries anything,” Yennefer said, panting lightly.

Jaskier grinned. “Right! Time for our portal then! Let’s get ou— _oh good gods!”_ he screeched.

Geralt’s sword stopped an inch in front of Jaskier’s nose, narrowly deflecting some projectile from hitting its mark. It clattered to the floor at their feet: a golden arrow.

Love lowered his bow and scowled at Geralt. “You almost made me hit him!”

“I made you do nothing!” Geralt countered.

“You dodged and put him in danger! Same result!”

“You’re wasting time bickering,” Ciri interjected. “Notus!”

When Love loosed the next arrow, the Wind blew it aside. Notus crashed with full force against Love, knocking him off his feet and into the wall.

“Come on!” Ciri started running, beckoning the others.

They followed quickly after, Geralt talking up the rear. He cast a protective barrier, glowing purple in the air behind them. It would only last so long, but Love had not regained his feet. They needed to find cover for Yennefer to work her spell.

“Can you make your portal?” he asked, sheathing a sword.

“I’m trying right now,” she replied, hands poised in front of her. “It was difficult last time. When we first arrived, we had the help of the Wind and dandelions. When I tried to make us a portal back, I couldn’t get it right away. I had to _search_ for the destination.”

Geralt glanced back. Love was rising. “Shouldn’t it be easier now that you’ve done it once?”

“One would think! It’s hard enough to concentrate when you’re standing perfectly still; it’s something else entirely to do it on the run. He called this the immortal realm; I assume it’s some different plane of existence altogether. You try making a portal between two realms and see how you fare!”

“Where’s the nearest room?” Geralt shouted, looking ahead at Jaskier. “We need to put a barricade between him and us!”

“This way!” Jaskier slid right at the altar room, catching Ciri by the cloak and pulling her along. He guided them all to the hot springs. He thrust open the doors and Geralt shut them behind. Jaskier gagged at the lingering stench of silphium. He barely managed to balance himself before tipping over into the water, mostly thanks to Ciri, returning the favor by tugging on his cloak to reel him back from the edge.

Geralt cast the barrier again on the door. There was nothing else to bolster it with. He hoped it would be enough. They had the Wind now, and Ciri had said Love’s power was weak. He’d summoned a weapon, but the attack was physical. They could cope with physical attacks.

“Yennefer,” he said. “The portal.”

She nodded, then circled the edge of the hot spring. She stood to the side in an empty space, concentrating. Her eyes closed she searched. The world below was far away, and it almost seemed to be moving, slipping from under her grasp. When out in the field, the world looked so close, but the truth was that the worlds were deceptively separate. It took an effort to find it, but the telling ripple of Chaos in the air showed the spell at work. In a few minutes, a whole, working portal emerged, and she opened her eyes again.

“Get in. I can’t hold it open for very long. It’s trying to get away from me.”

“Ladies first,” Jaskier said. He tucked his dagger in his boot and pushed Ciri toward the opening. He drew his hands back as they passed through the odd fog of the portal, startled. Something had shone around the finger of his left hand. He went suddenly pale.

“You next, bard,” Yennefer ordered.

Jaskier hesitated. “I—actually, I think there might be a problem with this method. I don’t think that I can— _whoomp!”_

Yennefer pushed him through, not about to deal with another nauseous portal whiner. This was no time for games. She was about to close the portal when they heard a second yelp and splash from the other side.

Jaskier came sputtering up from the water and flailed until he had hold of the side of the spring.

Geralt looked at him, then at the portal. “How the fuck did you end up down there?”

Jaskier hauled himself out of the hot water, dripping like a drowned dog. “The portal is right next to the fucking water!” he shouted. “I can’t enter the portal, so she just pushed me through it and off the edge!” He threw his cloak off with a heavy flop, a puddle gathering at his feet. There was no saving his pollen-covered clothes now; heat would trap the stain. But there were more important things to be worried about.

“Why can’t you enter?” Yennefer looked at the portal. As Jaskier approached from the other side, where one would normally see nothing but void in the fog, she saw _him_. There was something glowing, she could see, around his neck like a collar. On his right wrist, a shackle. He reached forward to brush his dripping hand through and she saw the ring glow faintly, made clear in the veil. His fingers pierced through the portal and it shimmered, the swirling flow disturbed by his touch, but he remained, trapped in the realm.

Geralt crossed the room and reached his hand toward Jaskier. It did not emerge on the other side of the room, but slipped through the portal. There was nothing wrong with the portal itself. Jaskier ran his hand along Geralt’s arm, rested it on his shoulder. Even through the distortion of fog, Geralt could see the understanding on Jaskier’s clearly.

“I can’t leave,” he said. He turned his hand, reaching out to cup Geralt’s cheek, but Geralt pulled away roughly and paced the length of the room.

“No, there’s got to be another way out. You’re a fully-fledged god—maybe you can’t interact with things born of Chaos.”

“Ciri went through,” Yennefer argued. “And she said she was a god. She’s been here long enough to acquire some level of godly power. It can’t be the Chaos.”

“Then it’s something else! Make the portal again; you said the world was slipping from you.”

Jaskier wrung his hands, feeling the bite of the ring around his finger. “It isn’t the portal, Geralt. Your hand went through.”

“Then it’s shifting!” Geralt snapped. “We’ll just have you go through again.”

“It’s not shifting. It’s me.” Jaskier walked through the portal, the fog swirling around him momentarily until he marched out of it on the other side. He stepped up to Geralt and grabbed him by the straps of his armour. He held firm, forced him to look and see sense. “I was singing when he took me and he made the song our first contract. He took me here, wrapped in his arms, that I might not leave again. Those were the words I sang. I didn’t sing them for him, but he claimed my song for himself, imprisoned me with my own words. I’m bound to them.”

Geralt grabbed Jaskier by his soaked shirt and hoisted him back to the portal. He shoved Jaskier through it and he stumbled free from his hold, Geralt’s hands no longer in the same realm to hold him. Geralt attempted to reach again, but much as he tried, he felt only the cool air on the other end, made colder against the wetness of his empty hands.

Jaskier stayed on the ground where he’d fallen, slipped in his own puddle. He looked away, unable to meet the eyes of either Geralt or Yennefer, his hair clinging to his forehead, unable to hide his expression of resolve. “I’m staying, so just go. I’ll see to Love. Now that he hasn’t got his Wind, I’ll have a fighting chance against him. Maybe his death will absolve me of my obligation. Right now, I just need you to keep Ciri safe.”

“That’s shit, Jaskier,” Yennefer said. “We stand a better chance three to one. We came here to solve the blight and you’re a part of that: we need to bring you back with us in order to fix things. Nothing changes without you.”

Jaskier took to his feet and shouted, tension rising. He stepped through once more and grabbed Geralt’s arm in an attempt to tug him into the portal by force. “And the only thing that changes if you stay is that the two of you may wind up dead! I will not be responsible for that! He won’t kill me—he _wants_ me _alive!_ I have my powers, my Wind, and a dagger—I can _do_ this.”

“No, you can’t!” Geralt shouted back. “I’m not about to let you fight a god with some flowers and a _toothpick!”_ He dug his heels in, then leapt to the side out of reach and around the back of the portal. When Jaskier chased after him, he made a quick sign and shut himself in a barrier.

Jaskier banged against it and kicked the solid surface with his foot. “That’s cheating! Damnable bastard! Come out here you—you horse’s ass!”

“The portal’s closing, Jaskier; give it up,” Yennefer said. She dropped her arms with a sigh, tired from the strain of linking the two realms so long.

Jaskier’s eyes widened with panic. The portal was shrinking. He turned to Geralt again, pressing against the barrier, slamming it with his fists as rivulets of water rolled down its front. “Geralt, drop this bubble right now! Just go on, both of you! He’ll kill you if you stay!”

Geralt shoved up against the barrier wall, startling Jaskier back. “Shut up! For once in your life, stop talking nonsense and listen! The decision’s been made!”

Then, before the next objection broached Jaskier’s lips, the wall of the room fell, door and all, crumbling and disappearing as each stone knocked free. Love stood on the other side, arrow raised. The barricade was useless; the house could rearrange itself at his will.

Jaskier acted without thinking, doing what he could to save the one in reach. He clamped his hands around Yennefer’s shoulders and wrenched her back with all his might, the portal between them. The momentum pulled her through. It closed just as Love let the arrow fly. Jaskier dropped to the floor and the arrow pierced through the barrier just behind him, shattering it.

Geralt scooped Jaskier up with one arm and raised him to his feet again. He didn’t have time to panic about the barrier being breached by the arrow, but readied his sword.

Love caught sight of Geralt as the last of the portal’s fog dispersed. He gripped his bow with cracking knuckles. “I thought you would have gone through,” he growled. “No matter; I’ll dispose of you through my own means.” Though he spoke quite confidently, there was a sheen of sweat on his brow. He was breathing hard, hands shaking. As Love nocked another arrow on the string, he stepped into the room.

“At least with the other two gone there will be less blood to wipe up afterwards. There will be no more portals to take you home.”

“What did you do?” Jaskier demanded.

“Why must you always assume that I have an active hand in these things? The sorceress is tired and the realms are difficult to cross between unassisted. This room is filled with silphium—did you forget the unique properties it possesses? She’s been breathing in the steam of it from the bath. Naturally, she will not have the power needed to cast another portal, and since you’ve all been huffing and puffing the same air, neither will you. You especially, Jaskier. My darling, you’re soaked through with oiled water.”

Jaskier was about to argue the limited effects of his oils when he was cut off, surprised by a hand around his waist.

“Don’t call him darling,” Geralt snarled, snatching Jaskier to his side.

“I’ll call him whatever I wish.” It was then that Love turned to Jaskier. He jerked his head back, commanding. “Come, Jaskier, step away from him. I thought I’d made things perfectly clear, but evidently you needed to learn the hard way: the game is up and you’re staying.”

Geralt glared, his sword levelled. “I didn’t come all this way to leave him here, especially not in the arms of a piss-poor imitation of me.”

“Whatever your intentions, there’s no way for you to steal him. He’s bound by contract, and the terms are—”

Geralt cast a sign and Love went flying out of the room and into the opposite wall. It wasn’t as strong a force as Geralt would have liked, but a weak blast was better than none. He grabbed Jaskier’s slippery hand and took off running back down the hall whence they came.

“Yennefer isn’t coming back; we’ll have to find another way out,” he said. “Tell me about this contract. You said it was made from one of your songs. Is that why he looks like me?” Jaskier did tend to write most of his songs about Geralt. Doubtless that would have some influence one way or another if Jaskier had added one of his many flattering descriptions. “I really hope you didn’t make him like me on purpose. I don’t much like the idea of something that looks like me locking you up.”

“So you _do_ care after all!” Jaskier said, feigning shock, a dramatic hand to his chest. Even when running from possible death, he could never pass the need to make some sarcastic remark or other. “Glad to hear you give a monkey’s about it.”

“Of course I care. It may be an ugly mug, but it’s mine.”

“About _me_ , fuckwit.”

Geralt grunted. “Safe bet I didn’t track you to the edge of the continent and back just to have the second round of a verbal sparring match.”

At that, Jaskier softened. “I was betting long before there was anyone else at the table. I knew you’d come.”

“That makes one of us. I didn’t intend to until Yennefer stepped in. I thought it would be kinder to leave you alone.” He huffed something very near a laugh. “Took the end of the world for me to realize that was wrong.”

“You do tend to wallow in your melodrama. People have got us mixed the wrong way round in that aspect.”

There was a whistling from behind. Geralt could only just hear it approach over the squeak of Jaskier’s boots. He let go of Jaskier’s hand and swiveled round to knock the arrow out of the air with his sword. It clattered to the ground and they started off again, ducking into the ballroom.

Jaskier made the split-second decision to lead them back down the corridor toward the cell. There were open walkways there. He paused long enough to coax the trees to stretch their branches across the path, having time enough to make a barricade. They were off again the next minute, hands clasped quite naturally. They’d reached out together without a thought spared.

Geralt felt the warmth through his glove and gave Jaskier’s hand a small squeeze. He wished he’d taken it long ago. “I’m sorry, Jaskier. What I said before, I—”

“Timing,” Jaskier interrupted. “I said we’d talk more about it when we’re out of here. And anyway, I know.”

But Geralt would not be silenced. Something about a fight, or any kind of action, really, made it easier for the words to come out. Perhaps it was because their attention was divided: he couldn’t overthink what he was saying, the other party could only half listen at best, and there was some immediate threat that compelled him to speak as if any word would be his last. Not that he thought they might. But there was always that possibility.

“Jaskier, I know what you must think of me. When we first met, I was nothing but cold-hearted toward you. I was stubborn as a stone in a plowman’s field. But you’re just as stubborn as me, if not more so, and you wouldn’t give up trying to burrow your way into my life. I’d been so alone for so long, and I’d been so used to it, until I got used to you without even noticing. Then I was afraid of what that meant.

“I tried so hard to keep you at arm’s length. I knew you would die of old age long before my face saw a new wrinkle. It all came to a head that day we found the djinn. You were about to be taken much sooner than I ever feared, then we met Yennefer, and I was so desperate for a company I wouldn’t lose that I clung to her.

“She’s a sorceress, and with that comes a lifetime equal to any witcher. If anything, she would outlive _me._ I tried so hard to love her that I might forget, but I couldn’t. I was blinded by the possibility, and when it came crashing down, you were there to remind me of all I’d be missing. And I decided it was best to lose you sooner rather than later.

“I mean to make it up to you,” Geralt said, “if you will not forsake me. What happened on the mountain was all consequence of my own actions. You were only ever good to me, and I was busy chasing after a false promise. I was too occupied to see what was in front of me while I might have it, however fleetingly. But I’ll be better. You can write a thousand insulting songs about me and I’ll stay to listen to every one of them, just as long as you’ll continue writing your songs at my side. Just tell me I haven’t missed my chance.”

There was something about Geralt’s speech that tickled at the back of Jaskier’s memory. Something about the stone in a plowman’s field. Of course Geralt had been too occupied to find anything true—he was _always_ preoccupied. As for missed chances, well, he was a fool in love, and he’d be a fool again. No, Geralt wouldn’t lose him just because— _dear lords above!_ Jaskier thought, interrupting his own internal monologue.

Jaskier gasped and nearly stopped dead in his tracks. “Oh, sweet merciful Melitele, I’ve muddled it all,” he whispered, eyes blown wide with realization. “I’ve gone and got it backward. It wasn’t the subject, but the _singer_ that mattered most! That was the other vagary! Vagaries, he said, not the singular vagary! There was more than one!”

“What are you on about?” Geralt asked, tugging him back to pace.

“It’s true, they’re all about you! Every song! I was projecting then, too—the singer was _you!_ Of course, nobody would ever assume _my_ heart was carved of ice or stone. And I may have walked away, but you were the one who did the true leaving, just as you said! The song is from your perspective! They’re your words! Your song and mine are one; how did I not see it before?”

“I—what?”

“Make a vow, Geralt!”

Geralt ducked out of the way as an arrow flew toward his head. Looking back, they saw that the barricade was aflame. Love had taken a torch to the branches and broken through.

“I’m a little busy for theatrics, Jaskier!” Geralt said.

“It’s for the contract that binds me here you thick-headed brick-brained brute! I’m supposed to return your vow, not make one myself! I never made one, but you _must!”_

Geralt pushed Jaskier out of the way of another arrow as Jaskier stepped too close to his side in his excitement. “What kind of vow?” he asked, glancing back over his shoulder to see Love getting closer. Geralt wondered if, along with his physique, Love had adopted his speed. He was gaining at an impossible rate.

“A vow to return my love,” Jaskier replied. “Actually, I suppose now that means I’m meant to make a vow to return _your_ love, since you’re the singer. I’m the subject you’re singing to, according to the song. ‘ _Return my vow and take me, love,’_ it goes.”

Geralt gaped at him and his heart lurched in his chest. “I never said I loved you.” Then, the full meaning of Jaskier’s revelation set in. _“Return_ your love?”

“Gracious gods, you’re slow. Well, I’m saying it! Since a couple years before the Surprise party, if you want to know.”

“Since—!” The specific wording of ‘Surprise party’ was almost vulgar in how it made light of the situation, but that was the least of Geralt’s concerns at the moment. “Why did you never say anything?”

Jaskier sputtered in indignation. “Big talk coming from the wordless wonder! I believe this is the _least_ one-sided conversation we’ve had since Posada!” A third arrow whizzed just past him, sweeping against his fringe. He swallowed and looked back. Love roared with frustration and bent to retrieve one of the old, discarded arrows. “Right. Timing. Talk later, vow now. I return your love with this solemn vow: I love you, Geralt.”

“And in case you’ve got it backwards, I return your love,” Geralt replied readily.

“Yes, likewise. I love you. _Whoo,_ that tingles a bit, and I don’t mean butterflies because that is the least romantic way you could have possibly said it. Alright, there may be a few butterflies in the mix anyway.” Love was close enough that they could _hear_ the stretch of the bowstring as he drew another arrow. “Moving on to the second clause.”

“Jaskier!” Geralt grabbed him bodily to pull him from the line of fire. They went hurtling over the edge of the arched passage walls and fell into one of the square gardens on the other side, scratched by the climbing roses that wound up the columns. Geralt landed on his back with a grunt, Jaskier clutched to his chest.

“Oh,” Jaskier gasped, reveling shyly in both the strength of his grip and the intimacy of the position. “One step ahead of me. Do you suppose this counts for the ‘take me in your arms’ bit? But I suppose I ought to be the one wrapping you in _my_ arms.”

But the breaking of something invisible around his ring finger answered for him as he looped his hands around Geralt’s neck. It was silly considering how many times they’d held each other since Geralt’s arrival in the realm, but Jaskier supposed things had to be done in the proper order. He felt so much lighter than he’d felt in … he couldn’t say how long.

Jaskier sat up without a moment to lose and leapt to his feet. Examining the new terrain, he was struck with the genius of their surroundings. “The gardens! Of course, this is perfect. If I can trap him in the arms of a tree, he’ll be powerless to break out. I’m not so weak that I can’t ask another favor from my little green thumb.”

He pulled Geralt’s hand to help him to his feet, and nearly slipped on the mossy ground when he was met with resistance. Geralt did not rise.

Jaskier took to his knees, face twisting with alarm. “Geralt?” he urged. He dug his fingers under his shoulder pads and gave a rough shake. “Geralt, are you alright?”

Geralt’s head rolled and he gave a light groan.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Geralt!” Jaskier cried, throwing his hands in the air. “An entire house fell down on you and you didn’t so much as bump your head, but you land wrong jumping a wall and you’re down for the count? That’s pathetic! You couldn’t have worse timing!”

“He’s not very reliable, is he?”

Jaskier swiped Geralt’s sword from his limp hand and sprung up at once. Love was crouched on the wall, leering above them, weapon ready. Jaskier glimpsed to the side at the nearest tree. Its leaves shook under his eye, awakened at his silent command.

Love leaned forward, glaring at Jaskier’s finger as if he could see the bareness where the ring was once fixed. “Do you think,” he sneered, “that you can escape just because you’ve broken the contract confining you?” He drew the arrow back with force, aiming at close range for Geralt’s heart. “As long as there is breath in me, I shall keep you!”

“Then exhale!” Jaskier said.

He lunged forward. His fist slammed into Love’s abdomen, forcing him to curl inwards. Love fell from the wall with a hollow gasp, the arrow freed behind them. There came a cracking whip, a rustle, and the creaking of a thick tree as it might sway in a storm, compelled to move by an overpowering force. That force was Jaskier. With a cry, he directed the tree’s branches. They obeyed, rushing like water, half as forgiving. Love did not reach the ground when they caught him.

Love growled. The fight was not to be won in a single move.

The branches recoiled at his touch and withered, turning dry, ashen, their leaves crumbling as they snapped like brittle twigs. He kicked himself free the moment he found his feet again, and Jaskier stood gaping. What trick was this?

“Did you not wonder _why_ the spring smelled of silphium?” Love asked, voice hoarse from Jaskier’s strike. “I’m covered in its oil from head to toe.”

Jaskier’s eyes went wide. “But why would you—how could you have known?”

“I didn’t know,” Love answered. He stood shakily, bow in hand. “I’ve been weak a long time now, drained by my efforts, my advances, all for the sake of pleasing you. So I’ve been soaking in the silphium every evening. Just as you draw power from your tokens, so do I. Though it may not be enough to give me the upper hand, I’m glad to see it levels the field.” He crunched the fallen leaves beneath his foot with a rueful smile. “Come, my dear: raise that sword! Show me what a _bard_ can do against an archer whose practice spans millennia. What back-alley scraps have prepared you for this fight in your short forty years?”

“I’m an Oxenfurt man. I’ve studied my swordplay.” So saying, Jaskier took position.

Love snorted. “You studied the _liberal arts._ Where in those seven is that?”

“You’ve obviously never gotten in a tiff over rhetoric.”

Jaskier stepped first into the fray, initiating the fight with a lunge. In school, he’d learned early to enter each fight on his own terms. He hated being put on the defensive and struggled most to make an opening for himself. His advantage was that he was swift. In every match, he could flick in and out before his opponent had a chance to strike, and by doing so he’d won most of his victories. Not that he had much of a reputation for fencing. What victories he’d won were few.

Being backed in a corner was doom to him; he lost focus, panicked quickly, and shut down before the battle was ever truly won. For so long, he’d been quick to give up. Now, he had known true and complete loss. He’d had the taste on his tongue so long, he’d grown sick of it. He’d sooner die than know it again. So when Love knocked the sword from his hands, put him on the defense, Jaskier did not despair. There was nothing to fear from it.

Jaskier dodged away and called a new limb forward to retrieve the sword. And though Love could easily destroy the new growth he summoned, Jaskier wove a tangled net of roots on the floor to slow him down. Dead branches and roots were still as much trouble to step over as live ones, even if they were easy enough to break out of. He grabbed the sword as Love edged his way toward the garden wall to evade the spreading roots. But that was too close for comfort.

Immediately, Jaskier dashed in front of him. With a wave of his hand, he bid the climbing roses weave together. He sealed off the garden with a thick hedge of thorns between them and Geralt.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked. “Your fight is with _me._ ”

Love pulled an arrow from his quiver, braced like a knife in his hand. He glanced at the dark wall of roses with distain. “It would go easier for you to drop that sword. I’ve passed irritated and I’m nearing impatience.”

“No. I owe you a debt. I promised that the next time I saw you, I would kill you. And here you are.” He spoke boldly and did his best to believe in the certainty he projected, though he had good reason to doubt a victory.

Jaskier tugged at his damp chemise, his boots still squelching wet. It put him at a disadvantage where lunges were concerned; he had to mind that he did not lunge too deep and slip. His sleeves clung to his arms, narrowing his range of motion, and his trousers—already tight to begin with—now stuck around his knees and made it difficult to bend. He was no longer dripping, and the oil’s effects alone were limited against his power, but the water itself was a danger.

Love nocked his arrow. “I have told you before on more than one occasion that I am of a cruel and jealous nature. More recently, I’ve said that I no longer care if you refuse to love me, as long as I have you. I’m telling you now that I don’t care in what _way_ I keep you, and I would keep you in death if that were the only means through which I might. I would rather it not come to that, but you seem so determined to push me to that extreme.”

Jaskier’s blood ran cold at those words and he felt a fresh stab of fear. He was not as indispensable as he’d presumed. Love’s earlier outburst had assured Jaskier of his own protection when Love had blamed Geralt for putting him in danger. Jaskier had thought that Love would not put him in such a position, would merely defend himself against attack without making any attempt to damage him: like a precious belonging that would not tolerate a scratch. But it seemed Love was, in truth, like a child more willing to break a toy than to share it with another.

The bowstring creaked softly as Love pulled his arrow back. It all happened in a sluggish, deliberate manner, Love waiting for Jaskier to drop his sword. Each little creak was a warning. There would only be so many before the arrow was drawn in full.

If Jaskier moved to disarm him, Love would strike true. The hall was narrow; if he moved to the side, the arrow might hit the wall and be flung back against him, which was easily survivable but it would still hurt, and Love might cudgel him with the heavy end of the bow while he was down. He could duck to the ground, but to the same result, or Love might draw another arrow by the time he rose and have it pointed between his eyes. Trying to wrap Love’s arms in branches would do no good: they’d crumble at his touch and he’d let the arrow fly before they could change his direction. Throwing the sword was stupid and he’d be dead before he could lift his hand. He had to do something else. Something subtle. Something _fast._

“What will it be, Julian?”

Jaskier’s eyes snapped up. He was _really_ beginning to hate that name. “I’ve told you already what feels like a thousand times,” he hissed. “My name is _Jaskier!”_

He stomped his foot and the roots jumped up from the floor. They created a barrier between him and the arrow just as Love released it. Jaskier gasped at how close it had managed to come, and his arm had flung instinctively to cover his face. He yelped, not accounting for the uneven weight of the sword, and it threw him off balance. He pitched to one side and slammed against the wall. With a lucky slip, he flattened against it and dropped down as another arrow flew overhead. Before Love would retrieve the next, Jaskier waved his hand and caught Love’s foot with a root, pulling him down.

Jaskier jumped forward. He aimed the end of his sword in the center of Love’s chest and drove it through with a sickeningly wet noise and the crunch of steel on bone. Love was stunned, eyes wide as he gaped up at Jaskier. Jaskier looked down at him, equally as shocked. He scrambled away and covered his mouth with horror, watching the blood stain his red robes.

There was something universal in Love’s expression that had frightened him. He’d seen it on Geralt’s face on the rare hunt gone wrong, and for just an instant, it felt as if he’d stabbed through Geralt’s heart. He knew it was untrue, but instinct hurled him back against the wall. His stomach turned and he felt he might lose his lunch—not that he could so much as remember when he’d last eaten a lunch, nor even what time of day it had been that he’d last _eaten_. It was the first time his stomach had had a purpose in so long, and it was only to make him ill.

Jaskier lowered his head, not wishing to see the light leave Love’s eyes. He would not watch him take his last look. Likewise, he covered his ears so as not to hear the wheezing of his final breath. He shut himself away from the scene and merely waited for all to be over and the shackle of his vow to disappear. But he still felt the weight of it against his right wrist. How long would it take a god to bleed out and die, he wondered? He wanted to hurry and sing a eulogy song for him, get the final cuff off his neck, all his vows paid in full.

Another choking sensation wrapped around his neck, but it was not borne of magic. Jaskier’s eyes flashed open and he started up in terror.

Love stood before him, clasping his neck with both hands, still very much alive. “You made me waste the last of my arrows,” he said. He pushed Jaskier up against the wall. As he drew closer, Jaskier could feel the metal pommel of the sword nudge against his front. It was still imbedded in Love’s chest.

“How … how are you …?” Jaskier rasped. He tried to claw himself free of Love’s grip.

Love shook his head with condescension. “It was thoughtless of you to aim for the heart—nothing but a meaningless effort. I told you once before: _I threw it away.”_

Jaskier struggled to remember what Geralt had taught him about breaking free of a headlock. There was something about ducking down, making oneself heavy, or maybe gouging the enemy’s eyes. But all that advice and training went forgotten, made useless as Love lifted him from the ground to dangle in his grasp. Jaskier could only brace himself to keep from choking faster. His legs flailed pathetically, too weak to give a solid kick.

“Are you really so helpless without your witcher to fight your battles?” Love taunted. “I think you might have died if I hadn’t stepped in so soon after he sent you off. I can see you so easily taken by the roadside by a common bandit. How you survived before meeting him I’ll never know. Before I lost you, you were such a coddled thing, knowing naught but your home and the hallowed halls of Oxenfurt. What power did you have before I made you a god?”

In Love’s grip, Jaskier dangled, back to the garden wall. He reached a hand behind him and felt the thorns of the bush brush his fingertips. At once, several brambles shot out from under his touch, scraping against Love’s face. Love roared and dropped Jaskier to clutch his eyes

Jaskier took several quick breaths as the protective growth caged him. Love wailed outside, stumbling blindly over the mess that spanned the floor. When Jaskier could breathe properly again, he stood, and the branches fell away.

“I am not helpless,” he croaked. He pulled the sword from Love’s chest and threw it aside.

More thorned vines wrapped around Love’s flailing limbs as he staggered, blood dripping over the creases of his hands. They withered and turned dry, dying at his touch, but Jaskier continued to throw more and more vines around him, building up the dead flora. Love thrashed and tore at everything in reach, shrieking with an unholy rage, but Jaskier commanded him back with every lashing creeper. He encased Love in them until every bare inch of his skin was covered, and at last, living vines clung to dead, no longer poisoned by exposure to his oil. Jaskier walked forward, pushing Love down the hall further with each new addition. The walls and ceiling crowded with the barbarous roses, their prickles and spines poised to strike like the thousand blades of an army. They crept into the darkness of the enclosed hall beyond. Jaskier needed no guiding light. He knew the room that lay before them all too well.

In the chamber, Love’s screams were deafening. Jaskier stalked on, unmoved. He pushed until Love hung suspended in the vacated prison. The dandelion warped, joining the mass around him, and from its stalk grew countless others, their heads blooming bright and yellow in the shadows. The air quivered with the unforgiving Wind of early spring, so often mistaken for the tailwind of winter, and the room bit with an icy chill. Jaskier clenched his hand, eyes glowing against the black emptiness. But Love would not have seen. He would never see anything again.

Love’s screams slowly died down, turned to gasps of pain. The vines twisted tighter around his neck and torso, crushing the air from his lungs.

“Where is your breath now?” Jaskier asked. The words echoed vengefully in the space. “I, too, can twist your vows. ‘As long as there is breath in me,’ you said.” He clenched his hand further, nails digging into the calloused flesh of his palm. Love made a strangled, empty noise, his lungs further crushed by the motion.

“I owe you two debts, and I’ll repay them both now. I will sing for you and bring your death—the slowest ever known to anything immortal. I expect I’ll be paying it for a long, long time, but it shall be paid in full.”

Jaskier pulled the silver dagger from his boot and crossed the distance, entering the cage one last time. If the silphium flowers could subdue a god, why should a dandelion not do the same? The yellow flowers turned to seed as he passed, the soft heads blown and scattered at his touch. He made a silent wish on each of them. The dandelions, the cage, a twisted vow, and a bit of silver; perhaps these things would be enough to subdue what little magic Love had left.

When Jaskier stabbed the silver dagger into the hole in Love’s chest, Love made not a sound. Jaskier closed his eyes as he twisted the knife in the barren space. The seeds rose in a cyclone around them, carried by the shrill Wind. However, Jaskier’s voice was not to be drowned in its whistle. When the first note left his tongue, the collar round his throat disappeared.

He’d thought of countless poems. He’d prepared many songs for this moment. There was little else to do inside his cage but plan, and he’d had all the time in the world to sit and think. The song was not pretty or grand: it was merely the final verse to be sung before this unbearable ballad came to its inevitable end.

_“Rend the heartless heart in twain and let it lie to bleed;_

_Let it be remembrance to the words you did not heed._

_Let this be my blessing song, this violent saving deed:_

_In action one, let all be done; from contract I am freed.”_

The Wind quieted at the end of the spell and all was still once more. Jaskier let his hands fall away. Love did not blink, did not stir. He sat motionless in his prison, frozen as in death. But he was not yet dead, Jaskier knew. The death he cursed Love with was of another kind.

He sank among the roots, resting as he climbed down from the battle. He plucked a dandelion, casting the seeds with a final sigh. “Grow, little messenger,” he whispered. “Grow and watch over him. If he should ever draw so much as a single breath, you will fly to me wherever I am with news. There’s a lot waiting ahead before we lay him to rest. When that time comes, you’ll have your reward and his grave will nurture your children, but we cannot release him to the cycle yet.”

The seeds drifted to the floor, taking their posts like sentinels at the base of every twisted, broken bar. Jaskier raised himself to his feet as they took root and grew their green stalks. He nodded to them, each now made a fine flower before he ambled exhausted through the open door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing double talk. Jaskier letting rip at Geralt, thinking he was Love was so much fun to write. Poor Geralt. He'll be fine though. Gotta squeeze out every last bit of angst before we get to the happy ending. And it will be a happy ending. I'm too much of a sap to end anything otherwise.
> 
> One more to go! Time for things to wind down. It's time to be gentle, to rest, and to start afresh. To quote that famous fic line, they deserve a soft epilogue. Of course, the epilogue comes after next chapter, but you get the idea.
> 
> EDIT 9/30/20:
> 
> Some fantastic art was made for this chapter by phoenixandjacob on tumblr! Have a look:
> 
> https://phoenixandjacob.tumblr.com/post/630742143217123328/in-the-chamber-loves-screams-were-deafening


	26. The Lost Yellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: supposed death. But not really, you know the drill by now.
> 
> 6437

Zephyrus circled round Jaskier

as he bent to collect Geralt’s sword in the passage. The hedge of roses parted at his hand, climbing slowly away to reveal the open arches. The roots of the tree broke a space in the wall and he walked through it, the path cleared for him with each step without another word or action. The moss beneath his feet grew lush. White flowers sprouted from each footstep left empty and every natural thing in the realm was attune to his motion, nothing suppressed or afraid at his passing.

“You see, Geralt? A sword properly wielded lends weight to an argument.” A brave offering of light-hearted fun shone through when Jaskier spoke. By this greeting, he hoped to ease his friend, ensure him that all was well. There was no more fighting, no more cause for worry. All was safe now.

He pushed the last of the branches aside and they shrank back to their trunk peacefully. The moon shone its light on the little square garden, catching the silver hair that lay fanned among the moss. Jaskier’s eyes fell on Geralt’s pale face, and he was surprised to find that he’d not risen at the sound of his voice.

“Geralt?” he said.

Then he saw the arrow rising out of his chest, buried in the black armour.

Jaskier sunk to his knees at Geralt’s side. His first instinct was to pull the arrow and he reached for it, but he remembered the dangers of pulling an arrow from a wound. Geralt’s hand was fisted around the protrusion, perhaps having tried to pull it himself. Jaskier wrapped his hands around Geralt’s as if to remind him his task was unfinished, knowing he could not do it himself for fear of making such a critical mistake.

“Geralt, you’ve got to get up,” he whispered. “You’ve come through the other side from worse than this. It’s time to go home.”

But Geralt remained on the ground, his eyes shut, unmoving.

Jaskier stared. It couldn’t be that what he saw before him was anything so heartbreakingly simple. Not even the arrow of a god was a death deserving of his friend—he hadn’t so much as seen the fatal weapon hit the mark. There was no witness. Geralt couldn’t have died alone, slipping away unnoticed. This wasn’t the way the stories were written. The lives they shared were composed of stories and adventures one after another—death, destiny, and heroics. Though death dotted many a page, the hero wasn’t supposed to fall to it at the end of them.

Jaskier dipped his forehead down against Geralt’s shoulder, breath beginning to shake. Theirs wasn’t meant to be a tragedy. That wasn’t how he told it. He gripped Geralt’s amour, willing him to move. He was Winter and Death; Death wasn’t supposed to die. It was an irony too cruel to belong to their tale. Theirs was a tale of true love and triumph, friendship, valor, and all the glittering gallantry Geralt was owed for his suffering. Let the beginning be tragic if it must, and let the company fail time and again in the middle, but let the ending always be worth the fight. The pauper must always become the prince, the victim the victor, and the lonely the loved. And all Jaskier wanted in the end was that one promise, nothing more. He wanted no princes or victories: only that which he’d ever wished for on a dandelion.

“Don’t let me lose this true love of mine,” he begged. “Come, my dear Geralt, please open your eyes.”

“That almost rhymed,” came the grunted reply.

Jaskier turned his head, eyes glistening in the light. And there, staring back at him, empty grey but full of life, were the eyes of his witcher.

“But … the arrow,” he breathed, gaping at the wound.

Geralt plucked it out and held his hand open, revealing that the end had been wrapped in his fist, unbloodied. It had not sunken deep, leaving only a slight gash in his armour. “Not the worst fight I’ve been part of.” He brushed it off, but his voice betrayed him. The man was weak, tired, and he’d had a hard time of it, much as he would like to deny his fall as nothing more than a little bump. “I’ve got a bottle of White Raffard’s Decoction and one of Swallow in my pocket if they haven’t been broken. Help me take them and we can finish this.”

Jaskier barked a hysteric chuckle as Geralt tried to raise himself upright. “I _have_ finished it,” he said. He wrapped a hand behind Geralt’s head for support. With a gentle hand he brushed the hair from Geralt’s face, let himself feel the warmth of his skin. Everything was fine. The battle was over and won. His heart began to beat again, having forgotten how for one dreadful minute, but it remembered now, beating for Geralt as it always had in perfect three-quarter time.

“How?” Geralt asked, eyes slightly unfocused as he looked at Jaskier.

“I fulfilled my contract and sang him a song, cocooned him in thorns that squeezed until they crushed his lungs—and impaled him with a silver dagger for extra measure. Just a precaution.”

“It helps to have a bit of silver,” Geralt said, lip curling in a timid smile.

Jaskier shrugged. “Not sure that matters to gods; he’s used silver at the dinner table many times.” Still, it never hurt to be careful. Then, a bit sadly, he added, “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave your dagger behind.”

“I’ll get you another.” The smile was more true with that assurance.

“See that you do, and give it to me properly this time,” Jaskier huffed.

They looked at each other for a moment, just letting the truth settle in, then Jaskier threw himself down and bundled Geralt in his arms, crying for joy. “You’re alive!” he shouted. After it had been confirmed aloud, he rapidly pulled away and clutched Geralt by the chin, glaring at him. They were nose to nose as Jaskier scolded, spades of nervous energy thrumming through him. “If you make me think that you’ve up and died on me _one more time,_ I’ll kill you _myself,_ you bastard! I’ve had that scare too many times recently. You’re forbidden from dying for the next century!”

Geralt snorted. “I’m almost a century old already; who knows if I have another in me.” But he estimated he had another two and a half at least, going by Vesemir. The old dog was still kicking. If he was careful, he might live to such a ripe old age too. One never knew with witchers.

“We’re gods, Geralt. If that title doesn’t come with at least a millennium of immortality, I’ll smack Melitele herself with my bare hand.”

“A god,” Geralt hummed. “Is that why my medallion doesn’t recognize your magic?”

“I suppose it makes just as much sense as anything,” Jaskier replied. He touched the medallion, pulling it up from where it hung limp over Geralt’s shoulder. It sat in his hand, perfectly still, reacting to none of the magic that lingered in the air. It wasn’t a foolproof piece of equipment, he knew, but it was very odd regardless that it should not acknowledge him.

“I’m Spring,” Jaskier said. “Or Youth; he was never perfectly clear on whether it was one role or more. And you, my not-so-cold-hearted friend, are Winter and Death. Very grim, but we do make quite a pair.”

Geralt grinned, taking Jaskier’s hand in his. “Whatever you are, it’s safe to say you’re no longer human. If you ever were.”

“I was. Be nice to me, or else I’ll make spring later and later every year—leave more work for you,” he threatened.

“Less work; witchers don’t hunt in the winter.”

“But the god of winter has lots of work to do to spread the season.”

“Hmm. Might not be so terrible if you’re waiting for me, holed up in the keep every evening.”

Jaskier lifted his head proudly. “I’ll not be confined. Not even by you, my grumpy snowman.” He flicked a shower of dandelion seeds out of his hair and dusted the rest from his arms. They fell in a flurry around them. But for all his play, Jaskier cracked a shrewd grin and asked, “Does this mean I’m invited to Kaer Morhen at long last?”

Geralt nodded. “You’ve walked the Path with me long enough. Those who walk the Path may seek refuge in the keep at winter.”

“Ah, but I’ve walked many different paths. Do I qualify?”

“Paths converge,” Geralt said. He grunted as he pushed himself upright, patting Jaskier reassuringly as his hands flew to assist. With a bit of willpower, he remained upright long enough to press their foreheads together, holding Jaskier close with a hand cradling the back of his head. “I’d like us to walk the same path again. If even for a short time my path and yours come together, that is the path I choose to walk. If you’ll allow me.”

Jaskier chuckled. “Of course I will. Besides, _someone_ has to take care of you: just look at what’s become of your hair! It’s become so brittle and dull.” Jaskier stroked through the tangles mournfully. It was going to take a lot of work to repair the damage done in his absence.

“You can start now by helping me with that potion,” Geralt said. Sitting upright had him feeling dizzy, as did the effort of talking.

Jaskier lay Geralt down again with the greatest care before working himself into a tizzy checking his pockets. He found a bottle of some reddish liquid and waited for Geralt to grumble confirmation before pulling the cork and tipping the contents down his throat. Just as he was putting the bottle away, a fussy, anxious squeaking came echoing from the temple.

The cart appeared from the open crack in the wall and stopped, the crack too narrow for it to fit through. It butted up against the space, front wheels grinding over the loose gravel.

“Well! If it isn’t my goodly cart guardian.” Jaskier hurried over to the wall. Several roots widened the space and cleared the rubble at his approach. He could see now that the cart carried a dish of water and soap, a fresh towel and bandage cloths all prepared. In addition, folded up on the bottom tray was his cloak, newly dry, and—of all things—a plump pomegranate.

Jaskier laughed! He knelt down to eye level, or where he assumed eye level ought to be for a thing without a face. “Thank you,” he said. He gave its wheel a grateful pat: a sort of improvised handshake. The cart nudged its wheel side to side in response, ever the gentleman.

Jaskier helped Geralt out of his armour and patched up the evidence of their battle, which was thankfully little more than a few scrapes, bumps, and bruises. The cart obligingly carried Geralt’s things for him. Even in the immortal realm, the air was chilly, and Jaskier wrapped his cloak around Geralt’s shoulders to keep him warm while the potion set to work. It suited him, the grey fur trim. He’d just tucked it in around him when the air crackled in the courtyard. Yennefer barged through the portal, accompanied by a cloud of dandelion tufts. Ciri ran out after her, arms ablaze.

Jaskier shot to his feet in an instant. “Whoa, easy now, easy!” He reached down for the soaking towel and at once used it to quench the fire on Ciri’s arms.

Ciri tried to pull away, head whipping this way and that. “Where is he? I’ll kill him, Jaskier, I swear I will!” she yelled.

“Which is that?” Yennefer was just as defensive, pointing a charged finger at the body resting on the ground, her hand crackling with lightning static.

Jaskier hurriedly pushed her arm up out of harm’s way. “That’s Geralt! I’ve already taken care of Love. Please, would you two calm down a moment before someone gets hurt?”

Ciri dropped down at Geralt’s side, hands fisting in the cloak. “His eyes are closed; is he dead?” she asked, switching from fury to panic at the sight of his pale face. She placed a finger at his neck, feeling for a pulse.

“He’s not dead,” Jaskier groaned. “Don’t shake him too much; I’ve only just got him settled. He needs to rest while the potion patches him up.”

Yennefer examined the garden, scrutinizing each shadow with care. “Where’s the body?”

“Tucked up in the cage, entombed in thorns.”

“What happened?” Ciri asked.

They were in such a rush, firing one question after another before he could scarcely answer the last. “If you could please sit down, I’ll catch you up. Just give me half a minute to compose myself. I’ve had a _very_ harrowing day.” More than a day, really. He was exhausted in so many ways and wanted nothing more than to collapse into a nice warm bed for a week or two, but his rest would have to wait. There was one last chore to be done. So Jaskier, Yennefer, and Ciri gathered in their small circle. Jaskier sat at Geralt’s side, peeling his pomegranate as he related the tale of his grand duel. It had, he claimed, the makings of his greatest ballad yet. Second greatest, at any rate.

By the time Jaskier had finished recounting his story from beginning to end, Geralt awoke. He sat up to the sight of the others having what appeared to be a tea party around him, a cart laden with finger foods to one side. Feeling him stir, Jaskier passed him a cup and scooted closer to help him upright. Geralt needed no help now he’d recovered, but he did not object to Jaskier’s hand lingering at the small of his back. He emptied his cup slowly, listening to the pleasant chatter: an odd dissonance of comfort in such a place.

“—and I’d thought it was the djinn’s magic,” Yennefer said, Geralt listening into the middle of the conversation. “It makes perfect sense. I was so sure he’d had the wishes because I sensed that unusual magic coming from him. Later, I thought it was merely that Geralt had been nearby, but no: it had been Jaskier’s own magic. That must have been what Borch felt on the mountain.”

Ciri had long abandoned her cup, though the glaze of a pastry still clung to the corners of her mouth, turned up in an excited grin. “And it’s a _new_ magic. That means he’s something Borch has never encountered before—something that _nobody_ has encountered. Does that mean the gods themselves are new?”

“It couldn’t be,” Jaskier jumped in. “Love is thousands of years old. He talked about a cycle of reincarnation and gods can’t lie.”

“Maybe because you started mortal yours is a different magic,” Yennefer speculated. Her violet eyes shimmered with possibility. She looked at her own hand with a wild expression. “Maybe we’re all something new.”

“But earlier you said that Jaskier was _distinctive.”_

Jaskier patted Ciri’s hand. “I’d like to think we’re _each_ distinctive,” he assured her.

“But it means something else the way she said it, like you were an anomaly.”

“He’s been here the longest,” Geralt said, joining the talk at last. “It makes sense that his magic would be more defined if he’s had the time to grow into it.”

Yennefer looked at him, a smart teacup poised in hand. She gestured round the circle. “We were having a discussion about our rank just now. Personally, I think Autumn should be the principal god of the set: without a harvest, the other seasons are merely decorative.”

A crisp gust blew around her shoulders in agreement, carrying with it the smell of burning pine. They’d since released the Winds, and they’d happily reunited with their respective owners. A refreshingly cold gale likewise blew in Geralt’s face, as if to prompt him to join in the debate and defend his honour.

“But without Spring, there would be nothing growing, and therefore nothing _to_ harvest,” Ciri argued. She waved a kreple in the air with authority.

Jaskier sighed, deflating in his spot. “It doesn’t matter; each season has its gifts.” Evidently, they’d been stuck on this particular point for some time, gathering evidence for their arguments among Jaskier’s stories.

“But if you’re the strongest, and if your power is different from ours, that makes you special, and _that_ makes you the principal season,” Ciri said. She made no argument for her own ranking. Likely she enjoyed the prospect of not having to do as much work, or she was proud of her friend’s status and wished to bolster him. She swiped a biscuit off his plate and shared from his cup, staking her claim among the others as if to prove that they were in allegiance.

“Look everyone: Geralt’s awake!” Jaskier announced comically, waving his hands at the witcher. “How _are_ you Geralt? Would you like a plate of something to eat? Do you need a hand up? And— _Oh?_ What’s that? You’d like to get out of this dreadful place? I couldn’t agree more!”

Yennefer rolled her eyes at his pointed theatrics. “Here.” She took a plate from the cart loaded with heartier food and placed it at his feet, tossing a napkin bundle of silverware in his lap.

“Eat those first!” Ciri leaned far over Jaskier to point at some squishy roasted red things on Geralt’s plate. In a daring move, she snatched one and popped it into her mouth before returning to her spot. She beamed up at Jaskier, eager hands tugging at his shirt. “Jaskier! Will you make atoes grow when we go down? And that tart fruit thing, the king fruits.”

“King fruits?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier held up the pithy remains of the pomegranate they’d shared, now that it was safe to do so. The fruit was nice, but a touch too bitter for his taste. Yennefer and Ciri had had most of it, and Ciri argued that he’d only bit too hard on the seed. “Fruit of the underworld: the pomegranate,” he explained. “I called them king fruits for a time.”

“And atoes?”

Ciri leaned over again to point at them in turn. “That one’s a _tom-_ ato; this is a _pot-_ ato. Atoes. They go with everything.” She pinched one small potato between her fingers, but Geralt stabbed the other end with his fork and pulled it out from her grasp before she could steal it. She pouted as he popped it into his mouth with a grin. In retaliation, she wiped her greasy fingers on his shirt.

Jaskier turned to Yennefer pleadingly. “He’s up and eating. May we _go_ now?” he asked.

She hesitated, then put up a mask of apathy, cup raised. “Not until I’ve finished my tea. It’s the first fresh tea I’ve had in months.”

“Yennefer,” he began, “I will grow you a _hedge_ of peppermint—no—I’ll cover the whole of the west wall of _Aretuza_ in peppermint if you’ll just get us home again. I’ve been gone long enough. This winter must come to a close, and to top it off, I’m sick of this place. _Please_ , oh principal season, would you condescend to open a portal and let me do my job?”

Yennefer put down her cup with a sigh and the truth came out. “Jaskier, I made my last portal less than twenty minutes ago. I’m _tired._ Give me time to recover.”

“Why don’t we ride the Wind?”

All eyes turned to Ciri at her suggestion.

She looked proudly back at the three adults and raised her chin at them. “Love rode on the back of the Wind in and out of the realm, or did you all forget? I made a point of telling you.” She wore a cat-like smile befitting of the royal lion cub. With a cheeky flourish, she took Jaskier’s last biscuit, dipped it in his forgotten cup, and munched it in a single bite.

The other two looked at Jaskier.

He cleared his throat. “I, erm, don’t know how to do it exactly,” he confessed. “And I’m sure my Wind is the weakest. We should ride one of the stronger Winds, if you think you can manage.”

“Just make a portal with yours like you did last time,” Ciri said.

Jaskier blinked at her. “I’ve never made a portal.”

“You did. Yennefer said she made a portal with the help of the Wind and dandelions when they first came into the realm. You helped her travel through them with your wish. Try it again.”

Dandelions sprouted under his hand without his thinking. He looked down at them as they turned to seed. Curious, he plucked one. “I suppose if anyone could make a dandelion wish work, it would be me, wouldn’t it.”

“She’s very bright,” Geralt remarked, looking down at Ciri.

Ciri smiled back at him, damn near _preening._ Oh yes, she _had_ spent time with Jaskier.

Jaskier tapped the soft white head of the dandelion. “Well then! I wish we might use the Winds to come and go as we please, and it would please me to travel by the convenience of portals.”

Geralt groaned. He would almost rather find out what riding the back of the Wind meant in the classical sense, being blown about in the open air. The only thing that stopped him from complaining was a nudge from Yennefer. She looked only too entertained at his reaction.

Jaskier blew the dandelion seeds free.

All of them watched, waiting as the seeds travelled on the air. At first, nothing seemed to be happening. Geralt regarded Jaskier with a skeptical eye, in response to which Jaskier’s ears burned pink with indignation. He shot up to his feet and raised a hand. “Of course, I haven’t commanded my Wind into the bargain yet,” he reasoned. He cleared his throat and loudly called, “Zephyrus? If you would?”

And then the seeds were whirling with purpose. The Wind whistled, atmosphere charged with a strange magic. Jaskier ran his tongue over his lips and grinned with triumph. “Take us home!” he cried, arms thrown wide.

The seeds shot outward, leaving a tunnel of Wind in their wake. It was similar to Yennefer’s portal, though the fog in the middle was less dense. There was a suggestion of something on the other side: a splash of blurred color. However, the Wind blew enough of Jaskier’s hair in his face that he would have had trouble seeing it if he tried. He chuckled and smoothed it pointlessly back.

Jaskier bowed and offered Ciri a hand. “Shall we?” he asked.

Ciri snatched his hand and charged through with a loud cheer. Jaskier stumbled and reached back for Geralt’s hand. In turn, Geralt was dragged through the portal, Yennefer on his heels, caught up in the chain of excitement. She laughed, hanging onto Geralt’s arm to keep him from falling on his face on the other end. This time, not one of them was left behind.

When the cool pre-dawn air touched Jaskier’s face, he fell to his knees in the wet grass. Ciri ran off down the hill, rolling and shouting, beckoning for him to follow. He did not hear her. Instead, he heard all the familiar sounds that he’d missed since being stolen away. Crickets chirped their early orchestra. Somewhere beyond the clearing of their valley, an owl hooted. The trees and grasses here _rustled,_ nothing lay still. This world was so much more _real_ and alive. He did not realize how unaccountably accustomed he’d become to silence.

A heavy tear rolled down his cheek as his nails raked the soft soil beneath his hands. It was so cold and dirty and wet. Some small flying bug flew up from where he’d disturbed it, buzzing off to parts unknown. Jaskier choked on a laugh. This was the _world._ He fisted at the thick, dewy grass and felt the smoothness of it, the nostalgic sensation pulling something up from inside him.

A gentle hand at his shoulder broke his trance. Jaskier ducked forward, curling in on himself. He sobbed, all of him shaking. Before Geralt could move to comfort him, Jaskier sprang out of reach. He tossed the torn grass in the air like the righteously decimated scraps of schoolwork thrown from the windows every year at graduation in Oxenfurt after exam results were posted. He whooped and went chasing after Ciri.

“We’ve made it! We’re home, we’re home!” he cried. He pounced and caught her up in his arms, spinning them around. Hand in hand, they danced like two wild things, flailing a jig until they slipped on the wet ground and went tumbling into the muddy earth. They laughed and threw clods of dirt at each other by the handful, running and shrieking in turn as the other spun to attack. The pair of them climbed the side of the hill on all fours only to go rolling down again to the bottom in celebration. And everywhere Jaskier trod, the grass grew greener, the flowers brighter.

When the sun finally crested over the far horizon, he threw his hands up into the sky. He shouted into the heavens, leaping into the air. As he did, every last dandelion seed which had settled on the ground lifted. They burst in every direction at once, lit up by the first red light of dawn. Yennefer, Geralt, and Ciri staggered backward against the force. The Wind waved over the land to carry them off to every corner of the Continent—to the very edge of the world! As it passed, everything turned green beneath it, and the world awoke to this first spring morning.

Jaskier collapsed on the grass with a contented sigh. Ciri rushed to him, prodding his shoulder. He batted her hand away with a smile, though he did not open his eyes. “That was … a bit much,” he panted. He felt tingly. Was that how sorceresses, mages, witchers and the like felt after using a great deal of magic? If so, he would have to offer Yennefer his condolences for the portals she’d made. But first, a well-earned nap was the order of the day.

To Ciri’s surprise, the cart rolled to her side. It had come along through the portal after Yennefer, going where needed as always. She reached onto the glass top and poured a fresh cup of tea, helping Jaskier to drink it. When a heavy set of footsteps approached, she stood and hurried to push the cart away. Jaskier heard it squeaking in the distance and cracked open a curious eye.

Geralt knelt at his shoulder, leaning close above him. He smiled and wiped some of the dirt from his face with a handkerchief. “Alright?” he asked.

Jaskier closed his eyes with a happy hum. “Wonderful,” he replied. He patted the ground beside him. “Come, have a lie-down with me.”

“It’s wet.”

“And you have my cloak. Lay it out, you dainty coward.”

Jaskier heard the rustle of the cloak settling on the grass, accompanied by a soft chuckle. He rolled over until he was on the cloak as well, arms folded behind his head. It was more than a little chilly; there was still snow in patches around the valley and the sun had not risen high enough to warm anyone. In addition, his shirt had no lace, being otherwise employed, and the collar left him exposed to the breeze. He shivered, but even that was welcome as another vibrant facet of life.

A heat pressed against his side just as it had many times in countless inns and late autumn nights by the dying embers of a campfire. He wriggled towards it. Witchers ran hotter than humans, and he sought the warmth of Geralt’s bulk, shielding him from the breeze. He wondered which Wind supplied it, if it were in his power to shoo it away, but then he’d have no excuse to bundle up closer. He had yet to fully understand that he no longer needed one.

“So,” Geralt whispered. “What we said before—while we were on the run, breaking contracts. That vow. Do you still …?”

Jaskier opened his eyes. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asked. He saw Geralt laying on his side, facing him, eyes staring down at the fur lining of the cloak. He watched his fingers twirling a few strands of the grey fur together, picking absently at the trim. Jaskier placed a timid hand over Geralt’s and it fell still, no longer fidgeting.

“Since you did … whatever you did to Love, I was worried. Without him can you still love?”

Jaskier smiled at him, shaking his head in fond exasperation. “Tell me Geralt, did you stop loving me between then and now?”

“No,” Geralt answered quickly. Then, he closed his eyes and huffed at himself. “Right. I should have thought that through before I asked.”

“You _do_ tend to get stuck in your own head.”

Geralt looked back at him with soft grey eyes. “What will become of love now if he’s not there to spread it? Will there still be new love now that he’s not involved?”

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier sighed. He gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. Despite Geralt’s old insistence that witchers had no emotions, he was quite obviously distressed at the notion of this one precious thing disappearing. “There was love in this world long before any god was ever made for it, just as there has always been rain and sun and blue skies. The act of love will carry on without his hand in the mix to corrupt things.”

Geralt closed his eyes and lay back again, satisfied by Jaskier’s answer.

Contrarywise, Jaskier sat up. “I intend to go on singing about Love,” he said.

Geralt’s eyes snapped open and he hoisted himself upright on his elbow. “Wh—”

But Jaskier cut him off, a finger to his lips. “I left him alive for the purpose,” he went on, watching with some amusement as Geralt’s expression became more scandalized. “If I were to kill him, he’d simply be reborn again, nothing about his nature changed. I mean to sing songs of a sweeter Love. If he truly is the product of a collective belief, then I want to change that belief. I will make a Love worthy of the name, then return to finish what I started. The death he’s dying now is the slow death of reinvention.”

Geralt’s brow remained furrowed, but he settled again on the cloak. “It’s more kindness than he deserves,” he grumbled.

“True,” Jaskier relented, “but it is a kindness _I_ deserve.”

He lay down beside Geralt, drawing his hand closer. “I’ll sing until the world thinks of love as something beautiful. I believed in such things when I was younger, and I want to go on believing them in spite of him _._ I want to think of love as something selfless and pure, loyal, universal, and as tender as I can make it.” He pressed his lips to Geralt’s knuckles, not a true kiss, but a simple touch. “I mean to make my love for you the blueprint,” he whispered. “If you’ll allow it.”

At that, Geralt truly sat up, pulling Jaskier with him. “Jaskier, I—”

“I won’t hold you to the promises of a past life,” Jaskier interrupted once more. He fretted with the cord around his neck uneasily with his free hand. “I never hoped to gain happiness through any means of destiny or magic. This is a free choice, not an obligation. I just want you to know that. I know how you feel about—”

Geralt caught the end of his rambling with a kiss.

Jaskier stopped fussing. He closed his eyes. He reached forward and wrapped his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, pulling him closer. One hand snaked its way up into Geralt’s hair to draw him in. He pushed until he was flush against Geralt’s chest and felt the warmth of a hand supporting his back. Geralt’s hand glided over his shoulder, cradled his neck. Caught up in the euphoria, Jaskier’s hands roamed until he cupped Geralt’s face. His thumb stroked against his jaw, free to touch at last. Geralt needed a shave, he thought with a rapturous joy. If not for Geralt’s arms, he would be on the ground again. It was everything he’d been wanting for so many years.

When Geralt pulled away, he did not go far. He rested their foreheads together, caressing Jaskier’s cheek as they caught their breath. “Your kiss is metallic,” Geralt said. “Did you bite your tongue?”

“Maybe—I was surprised and you cut me off.” Jaskier chuckled; he was delirious with happiness. He held on to Geralt’s wrists, not wishing for him to move apart, relishing the feeling of his hands. There was nothing else in all the world he wanted more than to keep those hands close always, to hold them, kiss them, and learn every wrinkle and callous they bore.

“I’m really not going to lose you, am I?” he asked. “Not in this or any lifetime.”

“No,” Geralt promised, his hands sliding down Jaskier’s chest. He wanted to feel Jaskier’s heartbeat. Was it anything like his? Jaskier’s love made him feel almost human, and his heart was nearly like that of one now, pounding away like mad. His fingertips brushed something hard beneath Jaskier’s shirt and he stopped. He nudged the collar open wider to see.

“What’s that you’re wearing?” he asked.

“Oh!” Jaskier’s hands flew under his chemise and he pulled the medallion out by the cord: the last yellow of all. He raised it up over his head and held it between them. “Does the color remind you of anything?” he teased. “It’s the color of your eyes! I found it in the offering pile of yellow and kept it safe for you until I could return it myself.”

Geralt tapped the medallion, nothing more than a large coin really. He raised a curious brow. “I’ve heard stories where fae would ask to trade for the color of a person’s eyes. I always thought they’d collect them in a jar,” he said.

“The colors manifested physically when Love took them. Ciri’s yellow hair was a ribbon. There were so many amusing interpretations, none of them looking at all like what I expected, but I knew them each right away.”

Jaskier fiddled with the knot in the cord, untying it. “I suppose I ought to give it back now; can’t let you walk around with grey eyes forever. I miss seeing my favorite color where it belongs.”

“Your favorite?” Geralt replied, tilting his head to one side with a smirk.

“His favorite!” Ciri hollered.

Jaskier flushed and they both turned to look at the girl, waving from up the hill. She and Yennefer sat with plates perched on their knees, finishing their tea as they watched the two of them having their moment. Ciri’s face was lit up with delight. Yennefer’s was one of smug knowing. As she lifted her cup, she wagged her pinky in their direction. _Manners_ , she seemed to say.

Jaskier scratched the back of his neck and turned to avoid their eyes. “I’ll, uh—now just a minute, I’ve nearly got it.” Jaskier fumbled until the knot came free, suddenly grown nervous now that he realized they had an audience. When the knot gave, he pulled the lace from the hole and slipped it back through the eyelets of his shirt messily.

“Here, I’ll—you’ve got it crooked,” Geralt stammered. He fixed the laces for him with equally flustered fingers. When he finished, he tied a bow at the top and dwelled back on his heels to examine it. A moment passed. Then, thinking it looked ridiculous, he pulled the lace to untie it again. Jaskier never wore his ties done properly.

The action left Jaskier laughing and the awkwardness washed away. “Here,” he said. He flicked the coin upward, tossing it between them.

Geralt caught it in the air, blinking when he felt the cool metal against his palm, but as he opened his hand to inspect it, the coin had vanished. “Where is it?” he asked, searching the ground. He was sure he’d caught it. A flutter of panic had him twisting around, hands in the grass.

Jaskier laughed again and caught his face between his hands. “Right where it’s supposed to be!” he answered. He turned Geralt back to him and kissed his eyelids gently. When they opened, yellow flashed back at Jaskier with a tenderness. He’d never been so glad to hold the attention of Geralt’s eyes.

With an affectionate sigh, Jaskier gazed back, admiring the color he loved so well. How he treasured those eyes, streaked and flecked with gold like ore in a dragon’s keep. Like the last light of day. He’d written countless verses comparing them to his own dear dandelions. He would write volumes more as he dedicated every freckle of color to memory.

One in particular gave him pause.

“I can see another color under the yellow,” he said, scrutinizing. “A spot of it, just here. It’s—well, how _symmetrical!_ —it’s the same in either eye.” Then, he covered his mouth, suppressing a bubble of laughter. “Oh, no; I’ve scratched your iris! I put a hole in it!” he howled.

Geralt snorted, a hand rising to touch his eyelid. “You put a _hole_ in my color?”

Jaskier’s head bumped against his shoulder, burying laughter in Geralt’s shirt until he could compose himself. He was wiping away tears when he rose again, and he cupped Geralt’s cheek for another look. “Do you suppose it’s the old color, from before the mutations?” he asked.

Geralt shrugged. “It’s possible. Probable, even.”

“Do you remember? Shall I tell you, or would you like to see for yourself?”

Geralt smiled and pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. When he pulled away, he shook his head, eyes shining in the soft morning light. “I’m happy to forget,” he replied. Those eyes belonged to another: to a small boy in a time long since passed. He was someone different now, and this moment, this day, he would not trade the world to change a single detail. Jaskier’s hands were warm in his, and the sun was rising higher, painting the morning in its brilliant golden glow.

“Are you sure?” Jaskier whispered, giving his hands another gentle kiss. “You don’t want to know what lies underneath your yellow?”

Geralt nodded, content. “Yellow,” he replied, “is the happiest color of all.”

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm an absolute slut for a 'the first line is the last line' trope. I've been dying to share it forever!
> 
> Thank you all for taking this journey with me. It's been a wonderful seven months. I was glad to have most of you with me every step of the way. Stay tuned for the epilogue and the final mock-up; I ought to have it finished by the weekend. In the meantime I'll post the angsty aside with Jaskier and Love in a What Could Have Been scenario. And yes, in the epilogue, the cart will explicitly go home with Yennefer to be her helper. Everyone's getting a happy ending all around.


	27. Epilogue: The Product of Belief

"His singing is magic,” the woman sighed. “A magic unlike any other in all creation.”

Geralt watched amused at the way she stared at Jaskier. The bard was once more perched atop a table, singing a fantastic ballad about the triumph of true love. Geralt didn’t need to look to know. Jaskier would be glowing in the warm afternoon light drifting in from the windows, as if the sun had blessed him with a spotlight wherever he may go. His cheeks would be flushed red, and he’d be radiant enough to turn the head of Aphrodite herself—perhaps he had once. After all they’d been through, Geralt was not disinclined to believe it.

“A wordsmith. Nay, a _silversmith,”_ her friend replied. “He’s a silver tongue, that one: truly makes you believe in what he’s singing, doesn’t he?”

Ciri popped up at Geralt’s elbow and reached across the table for Jaskier’s mug. “As well they should!” she whispered cheerfully, sneaking in a knowing giggle. Before the ale made it to her lips, Geralt tugged it from her hand.

“He’s made a lot of progress in only a few months,” he agreed, taking a sip for himself. He hid his smile behind the rim, watching her sulk from the corner of his eye.

“Jaskier lets me drink it.”

“He lets you drink _wine_ on _special_ occasions,” he corrected, not about to be played the fool. “Drink what you have.” He took up a cup from the table and slid it into her hand, lukewarm cider sloshing over the edge.

She looked down into it with distaste. “But it’s gone cold.”

He made a sign and steam rose up from the top.

“My, my! You _do_ dote on her when my back is turned!” Jaskier skipped to their table, a light sheen of sweat on his brow. He leaned over and plucked the cup from Ciri’s idle hands. He took a sip and exhaled theatrically. “Ah! That soothes the throat. If it were _me,_ he’d have let me drink it cold and nagged about wasting coin. You’re practically spoiling her, Geralt.”

He plunked his own mug down in front of her, snatching it back from Geralt. “Sip for a sip! You may have _one_ small sample, if only so I don’t lose my ranking. Can’t have him buttering you up when I’m not around to defend my title as favorite.”

“I think _two_ sips would do to secure your place,” she replied, tipping the mug eagerly toward her lips.

Jaskier smirked at Geralt. A moment later, Ciri gagged and he switched in the cider once more. She took it and began guzzling to get the sour taste off her tongue. “Lesson learned?” he teased. He reveled in her answering expression.

“You _pay_ to drink this?”

“It’s a lottery at every establishment and we learn to take what we’re given,” he sighed. He stayed only a moment more to finish his drink, then he patted her head, pecked Geralt’s cheek, and sprung back to his stage to begin the second act with a rousing rendition of ‘Toss a Coin.’

Ciri listened awhile, nursing her cider slowly. Geralt sat at her side with only the vague inclination of listening, having heard the song far too many times to bother. He watched the way he always did, partly meditative, making sure the bard didn’t fall off the edge of the table. He was still wary of lurking Nilfgaardian assassins or spies among them, looking for Ciri, but he’d begun to relax as time passed. Jaskier assured them that whatever came, Ciri would be safe. He’d argued more than once that they’d likely given her up for dead. At the very least, he thought nobody would recognize her. What was one girl among the masses? Things had been long quiet, and Geralt welcomed the peace.

“Geralt?” Ciri asked, breaking his easy reverie. “How many silver tongues have you fought? Was it only the one?”

“It’s ‘silver-tongued devil,’” Geralt corrected reflexively, remembering Jaskier’s lyric. He cleared his throat then added, “None. There’s no such thing as a silver tongue.”

“But you fought one in the song; everybody on the Continent knows it. There are children who play it out and trade turns being the silver tongue and the witcher.”

“That isn’t the line. As for ‘silver tongue,’ it’s a phrase. People use it to describe someone who can speak eloquently, with good persuasion.”

“Yes, because silver tongues are persuasive,” Ciri insisted. She twisted in her seat to gesture at him when she spoke. She was absolutely certain of her conviction. It was so much easier to believe in strange things now that she’d encountered a number of them herself. “Their words are spells that make things true. There would be a phrase about them eventually, just like there are phrases that come from other creatures. So there _could_ be something like that, couldn’t there?”

“There’s not. No such monster exists.”

“Of course not; I never said it would be a _monster_. Monsters can’t touch silver, and it wouldn’t be able to touch its own tongue if it were a monster. It’s a _creature._ Maybe that’s why you’ve never noticed one.”

Geralt only grunted in response, taking another sip from his mug.

“There’s a lot in this world that Geralt hasn’t noticed,” came a voice from behind.

Ciri hopped from the bench and ran to throw her arms around the sorceress. “Lady Yennefer!” she cried. “You’re here!”

She laughed and patted the girl’s shoulder affectionately. “Couldn’t you tell by the chill in the air? It’s the first day of autumn, you know.”

Ciri _did_ know. She’d had an exhausting last month. “How did you enjoy summer?” she asked. “I tried to keep it from getting too hot. Everything’s been growing nicely, the farmers are all saying. No fields too dry, no rivers too cold. I had a bit of trouble at the start.”

“You’ve worked very hard and I’m impressed with your magic. I only wish you’d had more time to practice.”

It seemed unfair to Yennefer that she and Geralt would have the most time to become accustomed to their new powers, but she was determined to succeed to help ease the burden as the torch was passed onto the new season. Jaskier’s spring had been a bit of a mess, weather changing at the drop of a hat, nothing settled until late into the final month. Ciri had more than a little trouble getting things straightened out, but she’d done so beautifully in the end, learning from Jaskier’s early attempts and following what guidance he could provide.

“I’m glad you could meet us for the turning of the seasons,” Ciri said. She pulled away and tugged Yennefer toward their table. “How is Carter?”

Geralt groaned at the name to Yennefer’s delight. “That cart hasn’t dropped a single bottle,” she answered, “even going up and down the stairs. It always stays the perfect distance away, never rolling on the back of my heels if I stop, and never falling too far behind. I couldn’t ask for a better assistant.” Then, she leaned over beside Geralt with a grin. “Well, save for one.”

“You’re _not_ taking Ciri,” he grumbled, tired of this repeating conversation.

“Finders keepers. I found her; I keep her.”

“If anyone found her, it was Jaskier. And he’s with me.”

Jaskier trotted back to the table, having finished his set for the evening. “Actually, it was the Wind that fo—I’m with you?” he asked, stumbling over himself as he sat down.

Geralt waved a hand between them. “You’re _here,_ aren’t you?”

“Geralt, he means ‘ _with you’_ with you.”

“Thank you, Ciri,” Jaskier said. He turned to the sorceress then with a look of long-suffering patience. “See? Without her we’ll have no one to explain simple things to us and the whole dynamic falls apart. She’s an integral part of our group.”

“Then we’ll share her,” Yennefer suggested. “I get half the year.”

“What? No! Quarter.”

“A third.”

“If we go by seasons, she should get me for a quarter during the fall, and during the summer when I choose,” Ciri replied. She raised her cup smartly in the air.

Yennefer smiled, nodding with approval. “That sounds reasonable.”

“Why not just come with us?” Geralt asked. Nobody knew for sure whether he’d been joking or not and his shrug offered little in the way of help.

“I have duties in Aedirn. The Path offers nothing for me and I’m too fond of a comfortable city living. Besides, I wouldn’t want to be around during your honeymoon phase when you’re at your most obnoxious,” she said, nudging Geralt’s side.

Jaskier raised his mug in a toast. “As they say in fencing: touché.” He emptied it of the last dregs, then stole Geralt’s with a kiss to keep him distracted. He delighted in the way Yennefer scoffed and pushed him away.

“Please,” she begged. “Wait until I leave. I’ll get hives watching you flaunt.”

“All the more reason,” Jaskier replied, leaning forward for another.

Ciri tugged him back before he could reach. “Jaskier? Can’t she stay with us for a few days? I want to watch her turn the leaves. Make her stay, won’t you?”

“Why ask _me?”_ Jaskier was positively flabbergasted by the notion that _anyone_ might expect _him_ to be able to persuade Yennefer to do _anything_ —never mind whether he’d _want_ to. “Really, isn’t this a question for Geralt? He has more pull with her than I do. The only kind of pull that I have with her is the desire to pull out my own teeth when she’s around long enough. Still waiting on my apology, by the way.”

Yennefer scoffed again, though there was a smile in her eyes. “And you’ll _keep_ waiting. Imagine if we got along; then I’d have to see more of you. Counterproductive, wouldn’t you say?”

“Please, Jaskier?” Ciri asked, giving him her most irresistible pleading eyes. “Aren’t you always talking your way into room and board? Convince her to stay! It would only be a day or two. I’d like us to be together for each of our first seasons.”

Jaskier’s heart was softened. “Oh, you little devil,” he sighed, “using sentimentality and the romance of nature against me.” He looked at Yennefer, himself casting a formidable pair of pleading eyes. “Would you honour us with the privilege?” he asked. Whether the nature behind the comment was that of sincerity or sarcasm was left ambiguous.

Yennefer brushed an indifferent hand through the air. “I’ve already rented a room through the weekend,” she replied.

Ciri cheered, then happily situated herself on the bench with her cup. Yennefer ordered dinner and they all fell to talking, catching up on what had come to pass since their last meeting.

After the events in the other realm, Yennefer had insisted upon presenting Jaskier to the council for observation. Jaskier was poked and prodded, samples of his hair plucked, and he was tested in a myriad of ways, all inconclusive. Yennefer, they argued, had simply grown in power. Many refused to indulge the idea of godhood, while a select few were willing to entertain the suggestion for a little while. Despite their differing opinions, all were in agreement that it was a new magic.

After three months of trial, Jaskier decided he’d had enough of their tests and dragged Geralt and Ciri back on the Path again, itchy to go _anywhere_ else. Geralt was of the opinion that they should take shelter in Kaer Morhen until Nilfgaard stopped tracking them. Jaskier dismissed the threat, but allowed Geralt to lead the slow journey on foot. He and Ciri secretly took bets behind his back as to when he’d remember about Wind travel. Two seasons had come and gone and there’d been not a single word on the subject. Ciri was horribly distraught by Geralt’s ineptitude, but now better understood how quite a _lot_ of Jaskier’s stories turned out the way they had. Though disillusioned with her great hero, she soon came to regard him with a wry humour.

After testing, Yennefer had returned to her post in Aedirn, the enchanted cart in tow. It made fine company, she said, and it didn’t talk back or make ridiculous comments like _some_. At last she had the keeping of ‘dignified company’ about.

When Geralt asked whereabouts she’d be staying, Jaskier had a fit of generosity and volunteered to pay her stay at the inn with another rousing evening’s busking next day. A few verses of ‘Toss a Coin’ would supply her fee, he assured her. It was in part a brag, and in part an honest offer. She asked that he instead buy her a bottle of wine so she might be drunk enough not to remember his discordant caterwauling.

The sparks of tension between them were reigniting and Ciri decided to put a stop to it by segueing back to her old question. “Speaking of that song, have either of you met a silver tongue?” she asked.

Yennefer looked at her with amusement and thumbed at Jaskier.

Jaskier looked, in turn, with confusion. “A what?”

“A witty person, Jaskier; or at least I know you’d like to think of yourself as one. For one with such a quick tongue, you’re awfully slow.”

Jaskier flushed, glaring as he hunched over his empty mug. “A great artist and philosopher takes his time to understand the questions they are asked, lest they answer wrongly.” He covered Ciri’s ears and grinned across the table. “And, according to several reliable sources, at least I know how to _use_ mine. As _slow_ or _quick_ as they like.” He winked at Geralt who promptly excused himself to fetch another drink.

Ciri sighed a propped her chin in her hands as Jaskier released her. “No,” she groaned. “I mean a _real_ silver tongue: a magical creature, like in the song. I always pictured it as a snake-like thing.”

Jaskier blinked. “A … you think Geralt fought something called a silver tongue in the song?” he repeated, curious fingers drumming the table. His eyes shone with invention, as if he thought he might make use of this imaginary creature for another ballad.

She nodded and said, “He persuaded the elf army to do his bidding, and he’s a clever liar; that’s what the song says. The army ‘revelled’ at his feet and he came at you with ‘masterful deceit.’ You wrote about it so you _must_ have seen it. Geralt says there’s no such thing.”

Yennefer smiled kindly. She placed a hand on Ciri’s shoulder, giving it a gentle pat. “I’m afraid it’s nothing more than a misunderstanding,” she said.

“No,” Ciri protested. “Everyone in Cintra knows the song, and they know Geralt fought a _silver tongue._ It was a rare creature found at the edge of the world. It has the magic of persuasive speech—some say it can speak things into being. _Tell_ her, Jaskier.”

She flipped round to look at him and saw his mouth was open as if to respond, but the moment passed and instead he appeared to be thinking. His jaw closed slowly, rising from where it hung slack, and he stared off into the distance. The hand that had been drumming stilled, then turned upward a moment as he counted something out on his fingers. Even Yennefer took notice of his unusual lapse in conversation and raised a brow his direction.

Suddenly, his eyes widened.

“Would you say a lot of people believe in silver tongues?” he said, his voice quiet beneath the buzz of the tavern.

Ciri tilted her head, staring at him questioningly. “It isn’t like tooth fairies, Jaskier. We all know they’re real,” she replied.

“I had noticed there are some who get the lyrics muddled from town to town,” he mumbled to himself. When he spoke again, he leaned closer to his companions, voice even lower. “It might be trouble if such a creature came into existence abruptly. It could be something dangerous. We know now that gods are born from collective belief; who’s to say other creatures might not be the same?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Ciri whispered, going pale as well.

Yennefer’s amusement was damped by the realization in turn, and even she spoke quietly. “Are you suggesting that you accidentally created a new creature through song?” she asked.

Jaskier nodded. “It’s entirely possible if enough people believe in it. Oh, good gods, what _else_ might I have put out into the world with my songs? I’m a man of influence now!”

He panicked and tried to think of the lyrical accounts he’d given of their adventures, the exaggerated features of monsters that he’d written to make the hunts more impressive. Would vampires now have greater strength, stronger teeth, and an eternally unquenchable thirst for blood? Had he changed the landscape of monster hunting forever? He began to sweat, trying to count the different versions of each song he’d heard copied by other bards across the lands, each of them a little changed and twisted as they exchanged throats.

“No, no,” he said, voice scratchy. He tried to take a sip of his ale before he remembered it had been long empty, and reached for Ciri’s cup to have a quick gulp of her cider to chase away the dry feeling in his throat. He swallowed, then spoke again, his throat tingling with the warmth of the stuff. “Surely it takes a _greater_ collective belief than that,” he reasoned, trying to absolve himself of potential guilt. “One more … worshipful, perhaps, otherwise all sorts of untrue things would be true.” The cider, drained from a tin cup, had a sharp metallic aftertaste to it. He ran his tongue over his teeth, trying to clear away.

“You’ll have to watch what you put in your songs in the future,” Yennefer said.

Geralt returned to the table, sliding a second mug of ale toward Jaskier. The conversation turned to other things as he, Yennefer, and Ciri began talking about their plans for the turning of the season. Jaskier, meanwhile, was very quiet. He occupied himself with his ale and his thoughts, going over a number of songs in his head, trying to remember the most popular. At some point in the evening, he’d silently excused himself and scurried back to the room. Geralt watched him from the corner of his eye and, as he passed, caught of whiff of anxiety in the air.

Before entering the room, Geralt paused. He could hear Jaskier’s fretful muttering through the door. He knew the moment he entered, Jaskier would pretend to be working on lyrics—he was familiar now with Jaskier’s anxious moods. The thing that puzzled him was that Jaskier _was_ muttering lyrics. It was out of place, and he could find no reason why there was a tinge of fear in the air as he spoke of his old favorites. They were no less popular now. What was the trouble?

“—and how did I describe her in ‘The Lion Cub of Cintra’? ‘ _A smile as warm as summer’s morn; herself, she turned the season. And giving glad, in gold silk clad, the world its rhyme and reason.’_ And how many times have I said _she_ could wither the world with a single look? That her very presence commanded the leaves to tremble from their branches, ushering in the early autumn? And— _oh,_ what have I—! Oh, what _am_ I!”

Geralt knocked as he opened the door and saw Jaskier leap down behind the bed. He fell with a heavy thump and lay there, silent, his sweat thick in the air. Geralt sighed and closed the door behind him.

“I know you’re in here, Jaskier. I saw you duck,” he said.

Jaskier remained silent.

Geralt set his swords aside at the door and patiently took off his boots. He rounded the bed and crouched in front of Jaskier. He found the bard with his eyes screwed tightly shut and hands covering his mouth. He was trembling, his skin stark white.

“Why are you hiding?” Geralt whispered.

Jaskier shook his head and gave no reply.

Geralt sat beside him and leaned against the bed. “Do you have a toothache?” he asked. He reached to pry back one of Jaskier’s hands, but Jaskier lurched away, turning his back. Geralt was starting to worry. “Jaskier, let me see,” he said, reaching for him again.

Jaskier shook his head harder and huddled in the corner between the bed and the wall. He refused to answer, or even to look at Geralt.

Geralt’s stomach began to twist; the scent of Jaskier’s fear made him sick. It was something he so rarely encountered, even on a hunt. He smelled it on the worst of them when he was hanging between life and death, dragged by Jaskier’s arms back to town. The scent itself could not be separated from such events, and the association made a part of him feel as if he were dying. But more than that, he himself had feared that one day Jaskier would reek of it, and he’d be the cause. It was the one thing he hated more than anything else. Geralt would rather drown in the sewers of Novigrad than to catch even the slightest waft of fear from Jaskier caused by himself.

They were still new, still hesitant. Even so, Geralt’s fingers gripped the loose, decorative tie at the back of Jaskier’s doublet, just to hold some part of him, and leaned his head between his shoulder blades. He … did not often make the first move to embrace. He was still afraid.

“Talk to me,” he whispered. “I’m no longer used to silence, Jaskier. I’ve had far too much.” He’d never known such silence as that which he’d encountered in that prolonged winter, now passed. Jaskier had been gone, then song. Everything was a song and the world was empty for so long, without even a rustle in the grass. “It’s become a curse,” he said.

Geralt could hear Jaskier’s heart, could feel the vibration of it thrum under his skin. He closed his eyes and listened to it. Even this frightened heart was still a living one beating. His grip tightened in the loop of the bow. “When you stop talking, I’m afraid I’ll look up to find you’ve disappeared again,” he confessed. “I can’t bear to have you disappear, even in this small way. Don’t hide from me. Please.”

Jaskier turned and threw himself up against Geralt’s chest, curling in around him. He clenched at his shirt, head tucked beneath his chin, and let out a heavy sob. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice tight. “I’m right here, Geralt. Only please, _please_ don’t _make_ me talk. It’s dangerous.”

“Why? You talk during the most deadly hunts; what’s so dangerous here, safe in this room?”

“I’ve looked in my old notebook. I’ve read the lyrics and diaries, picked apart every song I’ve ever sung, and in light of new information, I’ve learned a horrible truth. And it frightens me, Geralt. I fear I’ve done something evil.”

Geralt ran his hands up and down Jaskier’s back as he pulled him closer. “You aren’t capable of evil. Never true evil,” he assured him. It wasn’t in Jaskier’s nature.

“It was never my intent, but evil _has_ been done. I almost destroyed the whole of the earth for a few careless words. I birthed a great abomination. I—oh, _something_ strike me down!—my entire life has been one irreparable accident after another!”

Geralt held him tighter. “That wasn’t your fault. It was Love’s doing, not yours.”

“But, Geralt.” Jaskier pulled back, meeting Geralt with red, watery eyes. He was still trembling, hands fisted in Geralt’s shirt as if he were afraid to lose him. And maybe he was. His next words were cracked, scratching in his throat as he fought himself to speak them. “Geralt, I believe I _created_ Love.”

Geralt stared at him. It was impossible. Jaskier had no power before becoming a god, and he’d only risen to power by entering the immortal realm. He couldn’t make anything.

Jaskier saw the doubt and confusion in his eyes. “My invocation,” he explained. “I talked of making myself Spring, of making you Winter. I think in that moment, I _made_ it _true.”_

“You had no magic. Even if you did, you couldn’t make something true by accident. You would need a spell or a wish of some kind. There’s no—”

“‘There’s no creature that can make a lie true. That is a power that does not exist,’” Jaskier said, echoing words spoken to him not so very long ago. “The magic was _new._ The mages hadn’t known it; Borch hadn’t known it. Even Love referred to me as something other, claimed the rules might be different for me, whatever ‘thing’ I was. And Yennefer felt magic in me back when we first met—I hadn’t been a god then. I was something else.”

“You couldn’t be,” Geralt argued. “A god can make things true, perhaps, but nothing else.”

“Nothing but a _silver tongue,”_ Jaskier replied.

Geralt fell silent.

Jaskier nodded his head. “I know. They don’t exist—but they do. _I_ do. I think … I think belief has _made_ me one. I can’t count how many times someone has used that phrase with me. If my song has, however misinterpreted, spread the belief in such a creature, and if the phrase has been used so many times to describe me, it stands to reason that it might have some effect. You should have heard Ciri talking. She said t—”

“‘Their words are spells that make things true.’ I heard her earlier.”

Geralt slumped. He exhaled and leaned his head back against the bed. He still had his arms around Jaskier, though they were limp now, relaxed. “You always were incredibly persuasive,” he said. It was like a puzzle piece had clicked into place. A silver tongue. Something entirely new.

“In a roundabout way, I invented myself, just as I always boasted.” Jaskier found humour in it, but he couldn’t muster a laugh. “I sang the song that made the creature that the people made of me. Who can say when it truly began, this silver tongue business?”

“It’s barely there,” Geralt said, opening his eyes once more, “but your kiss is metallic. Sometimes it’s stronger. There are times I’ve noticed after you’ve sung, but I thought it was the ale. I never considered it anything meaningful.”

“Meaningful. Imagine what nonsense I might have unleashed into the world by talking _nonsense._ My drunken ramblings will haunt me for all my life—or would, if I remembered any. A power born of careless talking is impossible to control! Who knows what I mi—no! No, it is possible to control!” he corrected quickly. He jumped to his feet and said it twice more to be sure. “I shall not, _cannot_ , and will not use this magic unconsciously! There, I’ve spoken it aloud. It’s binding—and since I _say_ that it’s binding, it _is._ ” He leapt into action at once to address the issue.

Jaskier was up and pacing again, trying to establish rules so as not to cause another catastrophe. “I must consciously be attempting to use my abilities in order for them to work; that’s rule number one. Should I stop myself from influencing gods? Sweet Melitele—were there even _gods_ before I opened my mouth? Did I invent fate and destiny as well?” He was breathing rapidly now, oscillating from one thought to the next. He fanned himself with his notebook, then flipped through it frantically to search for evidence of this _new_ thought.

Quickly, Geralt stood and pushed Jaskier down on the bed. He loomed over him and covered his mouth. With his other hand, he gestured between their eyes. “Jaskier, I need you to look at me,” he said calmly. “You need to slow down. Do you understand?”

Jaskier nodded, though his eyes were still wide with alarm.

Geralt moved his hand down to cup Jaskier’s cheek. “If there were ever any gods, they would have known of your power. They would have invented the rules which govern the workings of the mortal realm. They allowed this to happen. They knew you would not be a threat to the workings of the worlds they oversee. If there were no gods, if you did invent them, they would still know of you and none has thus far stepped in to smite you, even as you offered them to do just now. ‘Sweet’ and ‘merciful’ Melitele, remember? That’s what you always say. ‘Good’ gods and lords.”

Jaskier relaxed and closed his eyes. At last the smell of fear began to wash away. _“Good_ gods,” he sighed. “There’s one worry I can put down.”

Geralt kissed his forehead before releasing him. “Put down the rest,” he said. He knelt to unlace Jaskier’s boots. In less than a minute, they were stacked on a chair along with Jaskier’s doublet, and Jaskier lay in his smallclothes on the bed. Geralt stripped and crawled in with him, enveloping Jaskier in his arms beneath the covers. “Go to sleep. Process. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

“Hopefully it will be _safe_ to talk in the morning,” Jaskier mumbled.

Ciri was the one who put Jaskier most at ease, in part because of her great enthusiasm for having been right. She spent a mortifying fraction of the day dropping comments at Geralt’s expense in regards to this newest revelation such as, “You’d think you’d have realized sooner, considering how often you’ve got his tongue in your mouth,” and other lovely anecdotes that had the unintended consequence of turning Jaskier pink instead. His embarrassment distracted him from his worry quite well and Ciri winked at Geralt sneakily.

As Yennefer started to make the first leaves turn, the subject was forgotten. She shooed the birds from their branches and bid Ciri and Jaskier to chase them off, starting the first chain of migration with a touch of excitement. By the end of the week, the village was surrounded with yellow, orange, and red. She stood proudly in an orchard as the others admired her work. On the final night, all three of them crowded around the fireplace at the tavern, each of them sipping warm, fresh cider from the early apple crop. She may have sped up the development of a few trees for the purpose after sampling Ciri’s rather disappointing crabapple cider at the start of the week. The late summer fruit was too sour for her liking.

At some point in the evening, she pulled the silver tongue aside to whisper quietly in the corner table while Geralt and Ciri were busy telling tales by the fire. Geralt tried to listen in, but there was too much noise concealing their whispers. The shadows of the isolated corner hid their faces well, but he saw a sympathetic look crease the lines of Jaskier’s face when Yennefer leaned back. Then, he smiled and said something gently. She took his hand. Though Jaskier would never get an apology from her in a thousand years, he knew, watching them, that she’d thanked him. For what, he could not say.

When they returned, Yennefer bent to kiss Ciri’s hair. “I’ll be leaving early tomorrow morning. Where shall we meet for winter?” she asked. But she already knew.

“Kaer Morhen,” Geralt replied.

Jaskier slipped his arms around Geralt’s neck, draping over his back to rest his chin on top of his head with a smile. “I would suggest taking a portal, or your Wind. It gets frightfully cold up in the mountains, even before winter sets in. And Winter will most definitely be up in the mountains when you arrive, isn’t that so, Geralt?”

Geralt chuckled. “I suppose he will.”

“I wonder if we’ll have to make such an effort of it every year,” Ciri said. “I’m still exhausted and I’m a week into rest. I hope things just happen in time.”

Jaskier fiddled with the chain of Geralt’s medallion. “Love said we’re merely meant to oversee things. I think once our powers develop completely, nature should take care of itself.” He hummed, then thought a little more. A smile came, and with it, another thought. “I could always talk out a solution: rescind our status, if you like.”

Ciri and Yennefer immediately shot down the suggestion.

“It’s fun!” Ciri cried.

“I’ll wither every apple you ever touch if you dare try it,” Yennefer threatened.

Jaskier picked up his cup of cider protectively and sipped it with a pout. “I was only offering; I think we deserve every choice in life, wouldn’t you agree, Yennefer?”

Something changed in the air between them. And Yennefer smiled.

“Yes,” she answered. “I really think we do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all caught that last bit of foreshadowing I wove throughout the story! Jaskier is a silver tongue, ta-dah!
> 
> Not to beat the hints over your head with an anvil, but in case you didn't catch what happened between Jaskier and Yennefer, Yennefer asked him to use his power as a silver tongue to give her back her fertility. And he did. And now she's forever doomed to have a soft spot for him for giving her that choice again.
> 
> Also, because Jaskier said so, Nilfgaard thinks Ciri is dead and have given up the search. And because Jaskier said so, Ciri will be safe.
> 
> Now that the story's over, you can catch the angsty aside featuring explicit Jaskier / Love here if you're into that, without fear of any spoilers:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/26892445
> 
> If you're interested in the final edit pdf, go ahead and hit 'Subscribe' at the top. I'll release the announcement as a chapter with the link to where you can download it. There will be two pdfs: one pdf for reading which will flow naturally, and one that's been formatted for printing at home on standard US 8.5x11 letter paper (which will look very funky because of how book signatures work lol). If you're subscribed to the story, you'l get a 'New Chapter' update when it happens. I'll also include a link to a book binding tutorial to take you step by step through the instructions on how to bind the book. I'll be binding this myself once everything is finished. Ta ta for now!


	28. PDF BOOK RELEASE

[Download free PDF](https://gumroad.com/l/An-All-Consuming-Creature-Book)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is at long last, the PDF version of An All-Consuming Creature! The final edits are done, the chapter heading pictures have been inserted, and it's here for you to enjoy! Coming up next, a book-binding tutorial for those who want to print and bind their very own copy. I hope you like it, and don't hesitate to leave a comment if there are any issues with the pdf (or if there's a mistake I've missed — but there had _damn well_ better _not_ be any after this much work lmao).


	29. PDF UPDATE

Now including a table of contents!

Edits: corrected roman numerals

If you downloaded before February 3rd, re-download for update.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for yet another edit; I hope this will be the last. Thank you for your patience.


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